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 d-ned drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks,1 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.

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! +

4

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

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.

1 Breeches.

2 Plenty.

3 This was written before the Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

4 My muse is hoarse with cold in the throat.

CRY AND PRAYER.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,'
The honest, open, naked truth:

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,2
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

4

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;

6

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 7

Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin-stoup as toom's a whissle; 10
An' d-mned Excisemen in a bussle,

Then on the tither hand present her,
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,
An' cheek-for-chow," a chuffie 13 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?

9

3 Frown.

6 Shrug.
9 Thistle.

7 Story.

10 Her pint mug as empty as a whistle.

12 Cheek-by-jowl.

13 Fat-faced.

Still.

17

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' rhetòric clause on clause

To mak' harangues;

Then echo through Saint Stephen's wa's

2

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true-blue Scot, I'se warran';
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran,
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,

4

The Laird o' Graham; 5
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,

8

Ye'd lend your hand:
But when there's ought to say anent it,

Ye 're at a stand.9

1 Cantie Carlin greet the cheerful old dame (i.c., Scotland) grieve.

2 George Dempster, Esq., of Dunnichen, Forfarshire. 3 Oath.

4 Ready-tongued.

5 Sir Adam Ferguson, afterwards Duke of Montrose.

Sagacious.

7 Spirited.

* Vanguard Hugh Montgomery, Esq., was member for the Poet's county, Ayrshire.

9 Mr. Montgomery was a bad speaker.

CRY AND PRAYER.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I'll wad1 my new pleugh-pettle,2
Ye'll see 't, or lang,

She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle,3

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 !5)

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

6

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.

Ion 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 10
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,11
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's,"
Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,1

13

12

Wad kindly seek.

19

5 Trick.

s Learning.

6 Mad. • Young cad.

10 Pitt, grandson of Robert Pitt, of Boconnock, in Cornwall.

11 Scotch cakes of various grain.

12 A worthy old hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studied politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink.—BURNS.

13 Windows.

20 THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER.

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-maxtie1 queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle 2 tongue
She's just a devil wi' a rung;

3

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,4
May still your Mither's heart support ye;
Then, though a Minister grow dorty,5

An' kick

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

Before his face.

God bless your Honours 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.

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 and beauty charms!
When wretches range, in famished swarms,
The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonour arms

1 Confusedly mixed.

4 The Scotch M. P.'s.

7 Rags of clothes.

In hungry droves.