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

His servants humble :

The muckle devil blaw ye fouth,

If ye diffemble !

Does any great man glunch an' gloom ; Speak out, an' never fash your thumb !

Let polts an' pensions fink or foom

Wi' them wha

grant 'em :

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want 'em.

In gath'rin 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;

• But raise your arm, an' tell your crack

Before them a?

PAINT Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; Her muchkin stoup as toom's a whissle ;

An' d-m'd Excisemen in a bussle,

Seizin a Stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a muffel


Or lampit shell.

Then on the tither hand present her,


A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,
An'cheek-for-chow a chuffie 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 rifiug hot,

To see his poor auld Mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,

D 3

An' An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat

By gallows knaves ?


ALAS! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ th' mire out o' fight!
But could I like Montgomeries fight,

Or gab like Boswell,

There's some fark-necks I wad draw tight,

An' tie fome hose well.

God bless your Honors, 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-heaf,

Ye winna bear it!

SOME o'you nicely ken the laws, To.round the period an' pause,

An' An' with rhetoric claufe on clause

To mak harangues ;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempsler, a true blue Scot l'fe warrant;

Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran :

An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,

The Laird o' Grabam;

An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran,

Dundas his name.

Erskine, a fpunkie Norland billie ;

True Campbells, Frederick an Ilay ;
An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie ;

An' monie ithers,

Whom auld Demofthenes or Tully

Might own for brithers.



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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 crankous 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 Whisky:

An' I---d, if ance they pit her till't,

Her tartan petticoat The'll kilt,

An'duık an' pistol at her belt,

She'll tak the Atreets,


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