« ForrigeFortsæt »
May gravels round his blather wrench,
O' sour disdain,
Out owre a glass of whisky punch
Wi' honest men.
O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
-they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's a---s!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast,
May kill us a';
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa!
Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Wha mak the Whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
poor d-n'd drinkers.
Fortune if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak' a' the rest,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER *
HOUSE OF COMMONS.
Dearest of Distillation! lost and best
How art thou last!
PARODY ON MILTON.
YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
An' doucely manage our affairs
To you a simple Poet's prayers
Are humbly sent.
*This was written before the act anent the Scotch
Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.
Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your Honor's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her a
Low i' the dust,
An' scriechin out prosaic verse,
An' like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
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;
But raise your arm, an' tell your erack
Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle;
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, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his poor
auld Mither's pot
Thus dung in staves,
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?