But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,
That shamefu' death.
Auld grim black-bearded Geordie's sel',
O shake him o'er the mouth o' hell,
There let him hing, and roar, and yell,
Wi' hideous din,
And if he offers to rebel,
When death comes in wi' glimmering blink,
And tips auld drucken Nanse* the wink,
May Satan gie her doup a clink
And fill her up wi' brimstone drink
Red reeking het.
There's Jockie and the hav'rel Jenny,†
Some devil seize them in a hurry,
And waff them in th' infernal wherry
Straught through the lake,
And gie their hides a noble curry,
Wi' oil of aik.
As for the Jurr, poor worthless body,
She's got mischief enough already;
Wi' stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy,
She's suffered sair ;
she wintle in a woodie,
If she wh-e mair.
+ Geordie's son and daughter.
WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWS
PAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.
KIND sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin',
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russian and the Turks ;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt ;
If Denmark, ony body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tak o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'!
How libbet Italy was singin;
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin ought amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game :
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St Stephen's quorum ;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ;
How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed,
Or if bare as yet were taxed;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails,
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.-
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And, but for you, I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
ELLISLAND, Monday Morning, 1790.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF
BRAIDALBYNE,
President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five Hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr M of A**** S, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they are, by emigrating from the lands of Mr Macdonell of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing-Liberty!
LONG life, my Lord, and health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors!
Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi' durk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes, as butchers like a knife.
Faith you and A ** s were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubtna! they would bid nae better
Then let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang the lakes and seas
They'll mak what rules and laws they please!
Some daring Hancoke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin ;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless lead them!
Till God knows what may be effected,
When by such heads and hearts directed.
Poor dung-hill sons of dirt and mire,
May to patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, or sager Sackville,
To watch and premier owre the pack vile!
And where will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance?
To cowe the rebel generation,
And save the honour o' the nation!
They! and be damn'd! what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, power, or freedom,
But what your lordships please to gi'e them!
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear :
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gailies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tirl the hallions to the birses ;
Yet, while they're only poin'd and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit :
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
And rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour,
Let wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're oughtlins faussont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
And if the wives and dirty brats
Come thiggan at your doors and yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds and grey wi' beas,
Frightin awa your deucks and geese;
Get out a horse-whip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
And in my house at hame to greet you!
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle;
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right hand assign'd your seat,
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate,-
Or if ye on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro ;
A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
And till ye come-your humble servant,
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.
LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.
all whom it concerns,
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,
A ne'er to be forgotten day,
Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.
I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken;
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.
But wi' a Lord!-stand out my shin;
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son !
Up higher yet, my bonnet ;
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