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An hardly in a winter's season,
E'er fpier her price.
WAE worth that brandy, burning tralla ! Fell fource o' monie a pain an' brash ! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hala,
D'half his days ;
An' fends, besido, auld Scotland's calh.
To her warst faer.
Ye Scots, wha with auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
It fet's you illy
Wi' bitter, dearthfuwines to mell,
Or foreigo gill.
MAX gravels round his blather, wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch
Wi' honest men,
O Whisky! fout o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks !
Now colic grips, an' barkin hoaft
May kill us a' For loyal Forbes charter'd boast
Is ta'en awa?
THAE curst horse-leeches o'th'excise, Wha mak the Whisky ftells their prize! Haud up thy han’, Deil! ance, twice, thrice !
There, seize the blinkers !
An'bake them up in brunftane pies
For poor d-n'd. drinkers.
FORTUNE ! if thou'll but gie me still
Tak' a' the rest,
An'deal't about as thy blind skill
Direets the best.
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 tbou lost !.
PARODY ON MILTON.
YE 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 hearfe !
Your Honor's hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce
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, Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
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: