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' plundered o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?

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

Or gab like Boswell,

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

God bless your honours! 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 through 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 damned auldfarran, Dundas his name.

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.

Thee, Sodger Hugh, my watchman stented, If bardies e'er are represented;

I ken if that your sword were wanted,

Ye'd lend your hand: But when there's ought to say anent it, Ye're at a stand.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To 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 fired her bluid;

(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Played her that pliskie!)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud

About her whisky.

An' Lord, 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 God 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-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the caddie!

And 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.

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.

L.

D

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,

Though 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, though a Minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honours a'

o' kail an brats o' claise,

your days,

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Wi' sowps
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

Your humble poet sings an' prays,

While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

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

But blithe and frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

Tak aff their whisky.

What though their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms, When wretches range, in famished swarms, The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonour 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.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, 'Such is royal George's will,

An' there's the foe,'

He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,
An' raise a philosophic reek,

An'

physically causes seek,

In clime and season;

But tell me whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!
Though whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,
Ye tine your dam;

(Freedom and whisky gang thegither!)

Tak aff your dram!