This was written before the act anent the Scotch Author return their most grateful thanks.

propriate title.

An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,
The Laird o' Graham ;*

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

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

Whom auld Demosthenes or 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 cank'rous 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.

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 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 wit 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' sportin' lady.

But now the L-d's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',
An' echoes back return the shouts :
Black
is na spairin':

His piercing words, like Highland swords
Divide the joints an' marrow;
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,
Our very sauls does harrow †
Wi' fright that day.
XXII.

A vast, unbottom❜d boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame and scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane !

A street so called, which faces the tent in + Shakspeare's Hamlet.