An' wi' the rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's
Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true-blue Scot I'se warran Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;* An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,

The Laird o' Graham ;t

An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auld farran, Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay;
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie;
An' monie ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes and Tully
Might own for brithers.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or, faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye'll see't or lang,

She'll teach you wi' a reekin whittle,

Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;

(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie !)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud,

About her whisky.

*Sir Adam Ferguson.

+ The present Duke of Montrose.

An' L-d, if ance they pit her till't,
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
An' durk an' pistol at her belt,

She'll tak the streets,

An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' the first she meets.

For G-d's sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,

An' strive wi' a' your wits an' 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 caddie;

An' send him to his dicing box

An' sporting lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnocks*
Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their foul reproach
Nor erudition,

* A worthy old hostess of the Author's in Mauch line, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink.

1

Yon mixtia-maxtie queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.

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,

Tho' by the neck she should 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.

(rod bless your Honors a' your days, Wi 'sowps o' kail an' braits o' claise, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,

Than haunt Saint Jamie's!

Your humble Poet sings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

POSTCRIPT.

1 et half-starved slaves, in warmer skies,
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise
Theirlot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blythe and frisky,

She eyes her free born, martial.boys
Tak aff their whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarnis The scented groves.

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms

In hungry droves:

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' pouther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin,

Il skelpt a shot;-they're aff a throwther, To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George's will,

An' 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' bludy hand a welcome gies him :

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' brethin lea'es him
In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek, An' raise a philosophic reek,

An' physically causes seek,

In clime an' season; But tell me whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld respected mither! Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather, Till what ye sit, on craps o' heather, Ye tin your dam;

(Freedom and whisky gang thegither!) Tak aff your dram!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led the embattled Seraphim to war.

O Thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

Milton.

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor danined bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a Deil,

To skelp an' scand poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame;
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles ranging like a roarin lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin, Tirlin the kirks;

Whyles in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.