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An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' th' first she meets !

For G-d fake, Sirs ! then speak her fair,

An' ftraik her cannie wi' the hair,


An' to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,

An? strive 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' send him to his dicing box

An' sportin Lady.

TELL yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,


An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's*

Nine times a-week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly seek.

Could he fome cominuttiin broach,

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

Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,

The Coulition.

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,


* 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 hould be strung,

She'll .no desert:

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,

May still your Mither's heart support ye;
Then, though 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' sowps o' kail and brats o'claire,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St Jamie's !

Your humble Bardie fings an' prays

While Rab his name is.



Let half-starv'd flaves in warmer skies

See future wines, rich-clust'ring, risc ;

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho’their Phæbus kinder warms,

While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!

When wretches range, in familh'd swarms,

The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms

In hungry droves.

THEIR gun's a burthen on their shouther ;

They downa bide the stink o'powther ;

Their baldest thought's a hank'ring swither

To stan' or rin,

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

To save their skin.

But bring a Scotcbman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a highland gill,
Say, such 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 sees him;
Wi' bluidy han’a welcome giøs him ;

An' when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzza's.




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