An' ane, a chap that's dam'd 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.

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 canc'rous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;

(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud
About her Whiskey.

An' L-d, 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' 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 an' lear,
To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!
E'en cowe the caddie,

An' send him to his dicing box
An' sportin' lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock's,
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks,
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnocks,*
Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea and 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 mixtia-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.

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,

Tho' by the neck she should be strung,
She'll no desert.

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

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your mither's heart support ye;
Then, tho' a minister grow dorty,
An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.

God bless your honors a' your days,
Wi' soups o' kail, an' brats o' claise,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,

That haunt Saint Jamie's!

Your humble Poet sings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies,
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blythe and frisky,

She eyes her free-born, martial boys,
Tak aff their whiskey.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms, and beauty charms!
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms
In hungry droves?

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' pouther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin,

Till skelpt 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 na 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 hand 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 an' season;

But tell me Whiskey's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason!

Scotland, my auld respected mither!
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,
Ye tine your dam;

(Freedom an' Whiskey gang thegither!`
Tak aff your dram!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many-throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war.

MILTON.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches.

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame,
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin';
Whiles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',

Unseen thou lurks.

A