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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,
AULD Scotland has a raucle tongue ;
She's just a devil wi’a rung ;
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;
An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honors a' your days,
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,
And there's the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
NAE cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
An' when he fa's,
In faint huzza's.