Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,
Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,
An’ doucely manage our affairs
In parliament,
To you a simple poet’s pray’rs
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ‘twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her arse
Lowi’ the dust,
And scriechinhout prosaic verse,
Anlike to brust!
Tell them wha haethe chief direction,
Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,
E’er sin’they laid that curst restriction
On aqua-vitae;
An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
An’ move their pity.
Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,
His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blawyou south
If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunchan’ gloom?
Speak out, an’ never fashyour thumb!
Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom
Wi’ them whagrant them;
If honestly they cannacome,
Far better want them.
In gath’rin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne’er clawyour lug, an’ fidgeyour back,
An’ hum an’ haw;
But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack
Before them a’.
Paint Scotland greetin owreher thrissle;
Her mutchkinstowp as toom’s a whissle;
An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,
Or limpet shell!
Then, on the titherhand present her-
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffievintner
Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouchas bare as winter
Of a’ kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,
But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither’s pot
Thus dungin staves,
An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?
Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
Or gablike Boswell,^2
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An’ tie some hose well.
God bless your Honours! can ye see’t-
The kind, auld cantiecarlingreet,
An’ no get warmly to your feet,
An’ garthem hear it,
An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat
Ye winnabearit?
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an’ pause,
An’ with rhetoric clause on clause
To makharangues;
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s
Auld Scotland’s wrangs.
Dempster,^3a true blue Scot I’sewarran’;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;^4
An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
The Lairdo’ Graham;^5
An’ ane, a chapthat’s damn’d aulfarran’,
Dundas his name:^6
Erskine, a spunkieNorlandbillie;^7
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8
An’ Livistone, the bauldSir Willie;^9
An’ mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
See sodgerHugh,^10my watchman stented,
If poets e’erare represented;
I kenif that your sword were wanted,
Ye’d lend a hand;
But when there’s oughtto say anent it,
Ye’re at a stand.
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I’ll wadmy new pleugh-pettle,
Ye’ll see’t or lang,
She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle,
Anithersang.
This while she’s been in crankousmood,
Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid;
(Deil nathey never mairdo guid,
Play’d her that pliskie!)
An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud
About her whisky.
An’ Lord! if ancethey pither till’t,
Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,
An’durk an’ pistol at her belt,
She’ll tak the streets,
An’ rinher whittleto the hilt,
I’the first she meets!
For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
An’ straik her canniewi’ the hair,
An’ to the mucklehouse repair,
Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear,
To getremead.
Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;
But giehim’t het, my hearty cocks!
E’encowethe cadie!
An’ send him to his dicing box
An’ sportin’ lady.
Tell you guid bluido’ auld Boconnock’s, ^11
I’ll be his debt twa mashlumbonnocks,
An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s ^12
Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,
Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aithin guidbraidScotch,
He neednafear their foul reproach
Nor erudition,
Yonmixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucletongue;
She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;
An’ if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,
Tho’ bythe neck she should be strung,
She’ll nodesert.
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither’s heart support ye;
Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,
An’ kick your place,
Ye’ll snapyour gingers, poor an’ hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honours, a’ your days,
Wi’ sowpso’ kailand bratso’ claise,
In spite o’ a’the thievish kaes,
That haunt St. Jamie’s!
Your humble poet sings an’ prays,
While Rabhis name is.
Postscript
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,
But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
Takaff their whisky.
What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,
When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,
The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves!
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downabidethe stink o’ powther;
Their bauldestthought’s a hank’ring swither
To stan’orrin,
Tillskelp-a shot-they’re aff, a’throw’ther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman fraehis hill,
Clapin his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George’s will,
An’ there’s the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twaat a blow.
Naecauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An’ when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn eenmay steek,
An’ raisea philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek,
In clime an’ season;
Buttell me whisky’s name in Greek
I’ll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o’heather,
Ye tineyour dam;
Freedom an’whisky gangthegither!
Take affyour dram!