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.

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

AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER

TO

THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES

IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

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 Poet's prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse !
Your Honors heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her a-

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 Aquavitæ ;
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 th,

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’ring votes you werena 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 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 aʼkind 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 an' 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 Honors, 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 heat,

Ye winna bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an' pause,
An' wi' rhetoric 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";
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,

The Laird o’ Graham? ; An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran,

Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ;
True Campbells, Frederick an’ Ilay;
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 Whisky.

An' L—d, if ance they pit her tillt,
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!

For G-d 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.