Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa! Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d-n'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An' deal't about as thy blind skill THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER ΤΟ THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks. Dearest of Distillation! last and best! How art thou lost! Parody on Milton. YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, In parliament, To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your Honors heart wi' grief 'twad pierce, Low i' the dust, An' scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, An' rouse them up to strong conviction, Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, The muckle devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Wi' them wha grant 'em: If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath❜ring votes you werena slack; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle; Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Then on the tither hand present her, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a' kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, 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, 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. I Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; ; The Laird o' Graham2; An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 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, (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, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' the 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. |