But yet, O Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fashed wi' fleshly lust;
And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust,
Vile self gets in;
But thou remembers we are dust,
O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg--
Thy pardon I sincerely, beg,-
O, may it ne'er be a livin' plague
To my dishonour!
And I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I further maun avow,
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow-
But, Lord! that Friday I was fou'
When I came near her,
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true
Wad ne'er hae steered her.
Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted!
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne
Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace
And public shame!
Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts!
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.
An' whan we chastened him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar
Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes!
Lord, hear my earnest cry and prayer,
Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr:
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo' their heads!
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds!
O Lord, my God! that glib-tongued Aiken,My very heart and soul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin',
While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin',
And hid his head.
Lord, in the day of vengeance try him!
Lord, visit them wha did employ him!
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their prayer;
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em,
But, Lord, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excelled by nane,
An' a' the glory shall be thine,
HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta'en some other way,-
I fear the left-hand road.
Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,-
Poor silly body, see him!
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,-
Observe wha's standing wi' him!
Your brunstane devilship, I see,
got him there before ye;
Has
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance ye've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.
But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,-
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kenned ye did it.
TO THE PRESIDent of the hiGHLAND SOCIETY,
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the society were informed by Mr. Mackenzie, of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they were, by emigration from the lands of Mr. M'Donald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing, Liberty.'
LONG life, my lord, and health be yours,
Unscaithed by hungered Highland boors!
Lord, grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight.
I doubt na, they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas
They'll mak what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancock, 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 dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile;
And whare 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 an' be! what right hae they
To meat or sleep or light o' day?
Far less to riches, power, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie 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 gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't 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 aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lessoned!
And if the wives and dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds and gray wi' beas',
Frightin' awa' your deuks and geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tattered gipsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
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 han', assigned your seat,
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