If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young Tho' by the neck she should be strung, An' now' ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your Mither's heart support ye Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, That haunt St Jamie's! Your humble Poet sings and prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. LET half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies But blithe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 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; Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a throwther, But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in 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. Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, 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 een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek, An' physically causes seek, In clime and season; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tine your dam; (Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!) Tak aff your dram! THE HOLY FAIR.* A robe of seeming truth and trust And secret hung, with poison'd crust, A mask that like the gorget show'd Dye-varying on the pigeon; He wrapt him in Religion. HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE I. UPON a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Fu' sweet that day, II. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, To see a scene sae gay, * Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Fu' gay that day. III. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, The third cam up, hap-step-an'-loup, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me. Fu' kind that day. IV. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass, Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 6 Of a' the ten commands A screed some day. ས. < My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae ; An' this is Superstition here, VOL. III. |