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Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trode i' the mire out o' sight!
But could I like Montgomeries fight,

Or gab like Boswell,

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An' tie some hose well.

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 round the period an' pause,
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause

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,
get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,
Ye'll see't or lang,

She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,
Anither sang.

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,
An' durk an' pistol at her belt,

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,
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,
An' to the muckle house repair,

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,
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their foul reproach
Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.

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,
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o'claise,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble Poet sings an' prays

While Rab his name is.



LET half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

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,
To save their skin.



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