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 ; 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, 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 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, 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; |