The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To The Scotch Representatives In The House Of Commons.

'Dearest of distillation! last and best!----         ------How art thou lost!--------'     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 Bardie's prayers             Are humbly sent.         Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!         Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,         To see her sittin' on her a--e             Low i' the dust,         An' scriechin' out prosaic verse,             An' like to brust!         Tell them wha hae the chief direction,         Scotland an' me's in great affliction,         E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction             On aqua-vit;         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 muckie 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             Wi' them wha grant 'em:         If honestly they canna come,             Far better want 'em.         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 crack             Before them a'.         Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrizzle,         Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle:         An' damn'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! I'm but a nameless wight,         Trode i' the mire out o' sight!         But could I like Montgomeries fight,             Or gab like Boswell,         There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,             An' tie some hose well.         God bless your honours, can ye see't,         The kind, auld, canty carlin greet,         An' no get warmly on your feet,             An' gar them hear it!         An' tell them with a patriot heat,             Ye winna bear it?         Some o' you nicely ken the laws,         To round the period an' pause,         An' wi' rhetorie 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;[1]         An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron,             The Laird o' Graham;[2]         An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarren,             Dundas his name.         Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;         True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay;         An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie:             An' monie 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 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 whiskey.         An' L--d, if once 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' th' first she meets!         For God 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 and 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 cadie!         An' send him to his dicing box,             An' sportin' lady.         Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's         I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,         An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's[3]             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,         Yon mixtie-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.         God bless your honours a' your days,         Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,         In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,             That haunt St. Jamie's:         Your humble Poet signs an' prays             While Rab his name is. Postscript.         Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies         See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;         Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,             But blythe and frisky,         She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,             Tak aff their whiskey.         What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,         While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!         When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,             The scented groves,         Or hounded forth, dishonour arms             In hungry droves.         Their gun's a burden on their shouther;         They downa bide the stink o' powther;         Their bauldest thought's a' hank'ring swither             To stan' or rin,         Till skelp, a shot, they're aff, a' throther             To save their skin.         But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,         Clap in his check 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 could faint-hearted doubtings tease him;         Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;         Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;             An' when he fa's,         His latest draught o' breathin' 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 whiskey's name in Greek,             I'll tell the reason.         Scotland, my auld, respected mither!         Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,         Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather             Ye tine your dam;         Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!             Tak aff your dram!