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When Vulcan gies his bellows breatlı,
I'th' lugget caup!
At ev'ry chaup.
The strong forehammer,
Wi' dinsome clamor. When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name;
Or plack frae them.
Cement the quarrel !
To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nicen, An' hardly, in a winter's season,
E’er spier her price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Brunewin--bun-the-wind--the Blacksmith. Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash,
O half his days!
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots wha wish auld Scotland well,
It sets you ill,
Or foreign gill.
Wi' honest men.
O whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Are my poor verses!
At ither's a-s!
Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin boast,
May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,
Is taen awa!
Thae curst borse-leeches o' th’ Excise, Wha mak the whisky stells the prize! Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers! VOL. II.-E
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor d-n'd drinkei s.
Tak a' the rest,
Directs thee best.
CRY AND PRAYER*
TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE
Dearest of distillation! last and best-
Parody on Milton.
* This was written before the act anent the Scytd distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.
To you a simple Poet's prayers
Are humbly sent.
Low i' the dust,
An' like to brust!
move their pity.
Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,
His servants humble :
If ye dissemble!
Doesonie great man glunch an' gioom! Speak out, an never fash your thumb! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom
Wi' them wha grant' em : If honestly they canna come,
Far better want 'em.
In gath'ring votes you were na slack;
An' hun an' haw; .
Before them a'.
Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle ; Her mutchkin stoupas toom's a whissle ; An' d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel
Or lampit shell.
Then on the tither hand present her,
Of a kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
Thus dung in staves,
By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode' i' the mire an' out o' sight! But could I like Montgomeries fight,
Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An' tie some hose well
God bless your Honors, can ye see't,
An'gar them hear it,
Ye winna bear it!
Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To round the period, an' pause,