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 ev'ry chaup.

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

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamor.

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 frae 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 nicen,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

.

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
source o' monie a pain an' brash!

in-burn-the-wind-the Blacksmith.

Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken 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, deathfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

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

O' sour disdain,

Out-owre a glass o' 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-s!

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

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,

Is taen awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells the prize!

Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers!

VOL. II-E

An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor d-n'd drinker s.

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 represents our burghs an' shíres,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

*This was written before the act anent the Scot distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland an the Author return their most grateful thanks.

To you a simple Poet's prayers
Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
Your Honors' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her a-e

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 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 onie 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'ring votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack;
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,
An' hun 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! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trode i' the mire an' 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,