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Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! tbat e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that Brandy, burning trash ! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash,

O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well! Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel !

It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O’sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky punch

Wi' honest men,

o Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses ! Thou comes they rattle i’ their ranks,

At ither's a-!

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.







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,

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

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 Aqua vite.
An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell your 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 ! Jet posts an' pensions sink or soom

Wi' them wha grant 'em : If honestly they canna come,

Far better want e'm.

In gath’ring 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 astoom'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' cbeek-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'er her hindmost groat

By gallows knaves ?

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ the mire out oʻsight!
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!

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