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An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' th' firft fhe meets!

FOR G-d fake, Sirs! then fpeak her fair,

An' ftraik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle houfe repair,

Wi' inftant fpeed,

An' ftrive wi' a' your Wit and 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 cadie!

An' fend him to his dicing box

An' fportin Lady.

TELL yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's

I'll be his debt twa mafhlum bonnocks,

An'

An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's

Nine times a-week,

If he fome scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly feek.

COULD he fome commutation broach,

I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,

You mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,

The Coalition.

AULD Scotland has a raucle tongue;

She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An' if the promise auld or young

To tak their part,

Tho'

* A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he

sometimes studies Politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink,

Tho' by the neck she should be ftrung,

She'll no defert:

AN' now, ye chofen Five-and-Forty,

May ftill

your

Mither's heart fupport ye;

Then, though a Minifter grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll fnap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

GOD blefs your Honors a' your days, Wi' fowps o' kail and brats o' claife,

In fpite o' a' the thievifh kaes

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POSTSCRIPT.

LET half-ftarv'd flaves in warmer skies

See future wines, rich-cluft'ring, rife;

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe and frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

Tak aff their Whisky.

WHAT tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,

While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!

When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The fcented groves,

Or hounded forth, difhonor arms

In hungry droves.

THEIR gun's a burthen on their shouther;

They downa bide the stink o' powther;

Their baldeft thought's a hank ring fwither

To ftan' or rin,

Till skelp-a fhot-they're aff, a throwther,

To fave their skin.

BUT bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a highland gill,

Say, fuch is royal George's will,

And there's the foe,

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

!

NAE cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;

Death comes, wi' fearless eye he fees him;

Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;

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