Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin'; Though life's a gift no worth receivin', When heavy dragged wi' pine an' grievin'; But oiled by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,

At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reeking on a New-year mornin'

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath

I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death
At every chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring and reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack fraé them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash,
O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor plackless devils like mysel'!

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

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 as!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' chartered 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 danıned drinkers.

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 AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND

PRAYER

TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Dearest of distillation! last and best !

How art thou lost!-Parody on Milton.

YE 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! my roupet Muse is hearse!

Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittin' on her a

Low i' the dust,

An' like to brust!

An' scriechin' out prosaic verse,

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On aquavitæ ;

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 gathering 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' damned Excisemen in a bussle,

Seizin' a stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel
Or lampit shell.