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Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost !
May kill us a’;
Is ta'en awa!
Thae curst horse-leeches o' th’ Excise,
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
Tak a' the rest,
Directs thee best.
AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER
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!
Parody on Milton.
Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse !
Low i' the dust,
An' like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
On Aquavitæ ;
An' move their pity.
Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,
His servants humble:
If ye dissemble !
Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?
Wi' them wha grant 'em: If honestly they canna come,
Far better want 'em.
In gath’ring votes you werena slack;
An' hum an' haw;
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,
Of aʼkind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
Thus dung in staves,
By gallows knaves ?
Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
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,
An' gar them hear it,
Ye winna bear it?
Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To mak harangues ;
Auld Scotland's wrangs.
Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran;
The Laird o’ Graham? ; An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran,
Dundas his name.
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ;
An' monie ithers,
Might own for brithers.
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
Ye'll see't or lang,
This while she's been in crankous mood,
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,
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,
Wi' instant speed,
To get remead.