An' ane, a chap that's dam'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, This while she's been in canc'rous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud An' L-d, if ance they pit her till❜t, An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 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, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive wi' a' your wit an' lear, Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, An' send him to his dicing box Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock's, If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, Could he some commutation broach, Yon mixtia-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; Tho' by the neck she should be strung, * A worthy old hostess of the author's, in Mauchline, where he sometimes studied politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink. An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, God bless your honors a' your days, That haunt Saint Jamie's! Your humble Poet sings an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies, She eyes her free-born, martial boys, What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, Or hounded forth, dishonor arms Their gun's a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o' pouther; Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan' or rin, Till skelpt a shot; - they're aff a throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, He has na thought but how to kill Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him Sages their solemn een may steek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me Whiskey's name in Greek, Scotland, my auld respected mither! (Freedom an' Whiskey gang thegither!` ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince! O Chief of many-throned Pow'rs, MILTON. O THOU! whatever title suit thee, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame, An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks. A |