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! Thou comes -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 VOL. III. For C poor d-n'd drinkers. Fortune! 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 * TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE 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 In parliament, To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas! *This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks. C 2 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 On Aquavitae; 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? Alas! |