Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To mak harangues; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran: The Laird o' Graham3; Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, This while she's been in crankous mood, (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her Whisky. 2 Sir Adam Ferguson. 3 The present Duke of Montrose. An' Lord, if ance they pit her till't, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' the first she meets! For God sake, Sirs! then speak her fair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, Yon ill tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, E'en cowe the caddie; An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Could he some commutation broach, Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. 3 A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue: Tho' by the neck she should be strung, An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, God bless your Honors a' your days, That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble Poet sings an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. LET half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies But blythe and frisky, She eyes her free-born, martial boys, What though their Phœbus kinder warms, 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' throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him: An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea❜es him Sages their solemn een may steek, An' physically causes seek, In clime and season; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! (Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!) THE HOLY FAIR'. A robe of seeming truth and trust And secret hung, with poison'd crust, A mask that like the gorget show'd, Dye-varying on the pigeon; Hypocrisy à-la-mode, UPON a simmer Sunday morn, The rising sun owre Galston muirs, The hares were hirplin down the furs, Fu' sweet that day, As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining. Fu' gay that day. 1 Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. |