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

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 Poet's prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas!

*This was written before the act anent the Scotch Dis

tilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your Honor's 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 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 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 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!

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 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.

*Sir Adam Ferguson. E.

+ The present Duke of Montrose. E.

Erskine,