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May gravels round his blather wrench,
Wi' honest men.
O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Are my poor verses !
- they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's a---!
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,
There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies
dn'd drinkers. VOL. III.
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.
THE THE AUTHOR'S
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER *
HOUSE OF COMMONS.
Dearest of Distillation! lost and best-
PARODY ON MILTON.
E Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Are humbly sent.
* This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotiand 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,
On Aquavitae ;
up to strong conviction,
An' move their pity.
Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Yoush, 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, an' tell your crack
Before them a'.
Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle;
Seizin a Stell,
Or lampit shell.
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,
auld Mither's pot
Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?