« ZurückWeiter »
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,t An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran,
Dundas his name.
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie ; True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ;
An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle,
Ye'll see't, or lang,
This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;
• Sir Adam Ferguson.
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
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 till’t,
She'll tak the streets,
['th' first she meets!
For G-d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair,
Wi' instant speed,
To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks !
E'en cowe the caddie ; An' send him to his dicing box
An' sportin lady.
Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's*
Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.
• A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Brink.
Could he some commutation broach,
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ;
To tak their part,
She'll no desert.
An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
An' kick your place,
Before his face.
God bless your Honors a' your days, Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o claise, In spite o' a'the thievish kaes,
That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble Poet sings an' prays
While Rab his name is.
Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies
But blythe and frisky,
Tak aff their Whisky.
What tho’ their Phæbus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.
Their gun's a burthen on their shouther;
To stan' or rin,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such 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-bearted doubtings tease him ; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; VOL. XXXVIII.
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him :
An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
In clime and season ; But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld respected Mither! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,
Ye tine your dam; Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!
Tak aff your dram!