Yet humbly kind in time o' need, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou art the life o' public haunts ; When gaping they besiege the tents That merry night we get the corn in, In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, I' the lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like death Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; Till block an' studdie ring an' reel When skirlin weanies see the light, How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight; Nae howdie gets a social night, When neebors anger at a plea, It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, Alake! that e'er my Muse had reason An' hardly, in a winter's season, Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! W' bitter, deathfu' wines to mell, May gravels round his blather wrench, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch Out owre a glass o' whiskey-punch O Whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks! Thou comes - they rattle i' their ranks Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! For loyal Forbes' chartered boast Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An deal't about as thy blind skill YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our burghs an' shires, In parliament; To you a simple Poet's prayers Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! 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, An' rouse them up to strong conviction, An' move their pity. * This was written before the act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the author return their most grate ful thanks. Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, The muckle Deil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble! Does onie great man glunch an' gloom! If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath❜ring votes you were na slack; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle; Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Then on the tither hand present her, Picking her pouch as bare as winter, |