An' ftrive, wi' a' your Wit an' Lear,

To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the cadie!

An' fend him to his dicing box,

An' fportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, I'll be his debt twa mafhlum bonnocks,

*

An' drink his health in auld Nanfe Tinnock's

Nine times a week,

he fome scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly feek.

ld he fome commutation broach,
re my aith in guid braid Scotch,
a fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,

old Hotels of the Author's in Mauchline. es ftuches Politics over a glass of guid, auld

Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,

The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;

She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An' if she promise auld or young

To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck the should be ftrung,

Then, tho' a Minifter grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honors, a' your days, Wi' fowps o' kail and brats o' claife,

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble Bardie fings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-ftarv'd flaves in warmer skies, See future wines, rich-cluft'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe an' frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,

While Fragrance blooms an' Beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd fwarms,

The fcented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther;

Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither, To ftan' or rin,

Till fkelp a fhot- they're aff, a' throw

'ther,

To fave their skin.

But bring a SCOTCHMAN frae his

hill,

Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,

Say, fuch 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 fees him;

Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their folemn een may fteek,

An' raise a philofophic reek,

An' phyfically caufes feek,

In clime an' feafon,