An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinocks *

Nine times a week,

If he fome scheme, like tea an' Winnocks,

Wad kindly feek.

Could be fome commutation broach,
I'll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch potch,

The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a racle tongue;

She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An' if the promife auld or young

To take their part,

Tho' by the neck the fhould be ftrung,

She'll no defert.

An' now, ye chofen Five-and-Forty, May ftill your mother's heart fupport ye; Then tho' a Minifter grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll fnap your fingers, poor and hearty,

Before his face.

God blefs your Honours, a' your days,

Wi' fowps o' kail an' brats o' claife,

A worthy old Hoftefs of the Author's in Mauchline, where he fometimes ftudies Politicks over a glafs of gude auld Scotch drink.

In spite o' a' the thievifh knaes

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble Bardie fings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half ftarv'd flaves in warmer fkies See future wines, rich cluftr'ing, rife; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blyth and frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

Tak aff their Whiskey.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder Warms, While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd fwarms,

The fcented groves,

Or bounded forth, dishonour arms

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burthen on their fhoulder! They downa bide the stink o' powther; Their bauldeft thought's a hank'ring fwither

To ftan' or rin,

Till skelp-a fhot-they're aff, a' throwther,
To fave their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say fuch is royal George's will,

An' there's the foe,

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint hearted doubtings teafe him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he fees him Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him: An' whan he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin lea's him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their folemn een may fleek,

An' raise a philofophic reek,

An' phyfically, caufes feek,

In clime an' feafon,

Bnt tell me Whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reafon.

Scotland, my auld, refpected Mither! Tho' whyles ye moiftify your leather, Till whare ye fit, on craps o' heather,

THE

HOLY FAIR.*

A robe of feeming truth and trust
Hid crafty obfervation ;

And fecret hung, with poifon'd craft,
The Dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget shew'd
Dye-varying on the Pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

I.

UPON a fimmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,

An' fnuff the caller air,

The rifing fun, owre Gallon muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin;

The hares were hirplin down the furs,

The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fa' fweet that day.

HOLY FAIR is a common phrafe in the West of Scotland for a facramental occafion.

II.

As lightfomely I glowr'd abroad,

To fee a scene sae gay,

Three Hizzies, early at the road,

Came fkelpin up the way.

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a wee a-back,

Was in the fashion fhining

Fu' gay that day.

III.

The twa appear'd like fifters twin,

In feature, form, an' claes;

Their vifage wither'd, lang an' thing
An' four as ony flaes:

The third cam up, hap-ftep an'-loup,

As light as onic lambie,

An wi' a curchie low did ftoop,

As foon as e'er fhe faw me,

Fu' kind that day.

IV.

Wi' Bonnet aff, quoth I, fweet lafs,

• I think feem to ken me;

ye

I'm fure I've feen that bonic face,

But yet I canna name ye.

Quo' fhe, and laughin as the fpak,
An' taks me by the hauns,

Ye, for my fake, ha gien the feck

Of a' the ten commaung

A fereed fome day.