« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
An hardly in a winter's season,
E'er fpier her price:
WAE worth that brandy, burning trash ! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hath,
O'half his days;
An' fends, beside, auld Scotland's cash.
To her warft faes.
Ye Seots, wha wifh auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
It lets you illy
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
MAX gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoaft
May kill us a' For loyal Forbes charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa?
That 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-n'd drinkers.
FORTUNE! if thou'll but gie me ftill
Tak' a' the rest,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee beit.
THE 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.
E Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squises,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs
*This was wrote before the Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786: for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.
To you a simple Bardie's prayers
Are humbly sent.
ALAS! my roupet muse is hearse !
To see her fittin on her a--
Low i' the dust,
An' scriechin out prosaic verse,
An' like to burst!
TELL them wha hae the chief direction,
E'er fin, they laid that curst restriction
On Aquavitae ;
An' rouse them up to strong conviction.
An' move their pity.
STAND forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,
The honest open naked truth: