To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your Honors heart wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her a-e Low i' the dust, An' scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to burst! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, SCOTLAND an' me's in great affliction, E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction On Aquavitæ ; 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 devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom; Speak out, an' never fash your thumb! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em! If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath'rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack; Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, An' hum an haw ; But raise your arm, your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrisle; Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle; An' d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a Stell, Triumphant crushin 't like a mussel Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter, Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, Thus dung in 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 gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honors, can ye see't, The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' gar them hear it, An' tell them, wi' a patriot-heat, Ye winna bear it! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To mak harangues; |