May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

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---!

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

For
poor

dn'd drinkers. VOL. III.

Fortune!

с

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

E Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires
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 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,
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 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;
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

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,
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: