May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass of whisky punch

Wi' honest men.

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!

Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses !

Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's a ---s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast

Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,

Wha mak the Whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d-n'd drinkers.

VOL. III.

C

Fortune!

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak' a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

THE THE AUTHOR'S

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER *

TO THE

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES

IN THE

HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Dearest of Distillation! lost and best
How art thou last!

PARODY ON MILTON.

YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires

An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple Poet's prayers

Are humbly sent.

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch

Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

C2

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!

Your Honor's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her a

Low i' the dust,

An' like to brust!

An' scriechin out prosaic verse,

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,

Scotland an' me's in great affliction,

E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction

On Aquavitae;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,

The honest, open, naked truth:

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,

His servants humble:

The muckle devil blaw ye south,

If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?

Speak out, an' never fash your thumb !
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom

If honestly they canna come,

Wi' them wha grant 'em:

Far better want 'em.

۱

In gath'rin votes you were na slack;

Now stand as tightly by your tack;
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,
An' hum an' haw;

But raise your arm, an' tell your erack
Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle;

Her mutchkin stoup as 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,
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner,
Colleaguing join,

Picking her pouch as bare as winter
Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,

But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,

To see his poor auld Mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat

By gallows knaves?

Alas!