« ForrigeFortsæt »
Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Or gab like Boswell,
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
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 ;
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's
Auld Scotland's wrangs,
Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,
The Laird o' Graham;+
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,
Dundas his name,
Sir Adam Ferguson. E.
+ The present Duke of Montrose, E.
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ;
An' monie ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,
This while she's been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,,
Play'd her that pliskie!)
An' now she's like to rin red-wud
About her Whisky.
An' L-d, if ance they pit her till't,
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
She'll tak the streets,
An' rin her whittle to the hilt,
I' th' first she meets!
For G-d sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,
Wi' instant speed,
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,
To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!
E'en cowe the caddie!
An' send him to his dicing box
An' sportin lady.
Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's* Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.
* A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink.
Could he some commutation broach,
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung;
An' if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,
Tho' by the neck she should be strung,
She'll no desert.
An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your Mither's heart support ye; Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty,
An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honors a' your days,
That haunt St. Jamie's!
Your humble Poet sings an' prays
While Rab his name is.
LET half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies
But blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
Tak aff their Whisky.
What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonor arms
In hungry droves.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither
To stan' or rin,
Till skelp—a shot-they're aff, a throwther,