To the Right Honourable and Honourable ScotchRepresentatives in the House of Commons.2
Dearest of distillation! last and best—3
—How art thou lost!—4
Parody on Milton.5
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,An’ doucely manage our affairsIn parliament,To you a simple poet’s pray’rsAre humbly sent.11
Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,To see her sittin on her arseLow i’ the dust,And scriechinhout prosaic verse,An like to brust!17
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,E’er sin’ they laid that curst restrictionOn aqua-vitae;An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,An’ move their pity.23
Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youthThe honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,His servants humble:The muckle deevil blaw you southIf ye dissemble!29
Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!Let posts an’ pensions sink or soomWi’ them wha grant them;If honestly they canna come,Far better want them.35
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 crackBefore them a’.41
Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a stell,Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,Or limpet shell!47
Then, on the tither hand present her—A blackguard smuggler right behint her,An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintnerColleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf a’ kind coin.53
Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,To see his poor auld mither’s potThus dung in staves,An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?59
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.65
God bless your Honours! can ye see’t—The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,An’ no get warmly to your feet,An’ gar them hear it,An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heatYe winna bear it?71
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an’ pause,An’ with rhetoric clause on clauseTo mak harangues;Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’sAuld Scotland’s wrangs.77
Dempster, a true blue Scot I’se warran’;Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,The Laird o’ Graham;An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,Dundas his name:83
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;85
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;An’ mony ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.89
See sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,If poets e’er are represented;I ken if that your sword were wanted,Ye’d lend a hand;But when there’s ought to say anent it,Ye’re at a stand.95
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.101
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-wudAbout her whisky.107
An’ Lord! 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!113
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 an’ lear,To get remead.119
Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!E’en cowe the cadie!An’ send him to his dicing boxAn’ sportin’ lady.125
Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s,I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’sNine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,Was kindly seek.131
Could he some commutation broach,I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He needna fear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.137
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;An’ if she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,She’ll no desert.143
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still you mither’s heart support ye;Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,An’ kick your place,Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty,Before his face.149
God bless your Honours, a’ your days,Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,151
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,That haunt St. Jamie’s!Your humble poet sings an’ prays,While Rab his name is.155
Postscript156
Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,But, blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boysTak aff their whisky.162
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 armsIn hungry droves!168
Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o’ powther;Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring switherTo stan’ or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther,To save their skin.174
But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George’s will,An’ there’s the foe!He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.180
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him;An’ when he fa’s,His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es himIn faint huzzas.186
Sages their solemn een may steek,An’ raise a philosophic reek,An’ physically causes seek,In clime an’ season;But tell me whisky’s name in GreekI’ll tell the reason.192
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!Take aff your dram!198