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were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. M'Donald of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing — LIBERTY.
LONG life, my lord, and health be yours, Unscaithed by hungered Highland boors; Unhurt Lord, grant nae duddie desperate beggar, ragged Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes as lambkins like a knife.
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
linquished all the feudal claims upon the labor of his tenants, whom he pays with the strictest regard to justice at the rate of sevenpence or eightpence for every day employed upon his works."
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
And save the honour o' the nation?
They, and be d! what right hae they
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, despoiled They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; But smash them, crash them a' to spails! chips And rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let them in Drury Lane be lessoned!
And if the wives and dirty brats
girls at all
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts, beg-gates Flaffan wi' duds and gray wi'
Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel deservin't;
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790 [A. D. 1786.]
"Thoughts, words, and deeds the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."
On reading in the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the au
1 This poem came through the hands of Rankine of Adamhill to those of a gentleman of Ayr, who gave it to the world in the Edinburgh Magazine for February 1818. A copy in the poet's handwriting is, or was lately, in the possession of a person in humble life at Jedburgh.
2 Thomas Warton was then in this servile and ridiculous office. His ode for June 4, 1786, begins as follows:
thor was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following "Address."
GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty !
I see ye're complimented thrang,
"God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang
That's unco easy said aye;
The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi' rhymes weel-turned and ready, Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
On sic a day.
"When Freedom nursed her native fire
In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre,
Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's brow
But paid to guiltless power their willing vow,
On these verses the rhymes of the Ayrshire bard must be allowed to form an odd enough commentary.
For me, before a monarch's face
There's mony waur been o' the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.
'Tis very true, my sovereign king, My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding, be beaten
And downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft and clouted,1 broken and patched
And now the third part of the string,
And less, will gang about it
Far be't frae me that I aspire
But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,
Ye've trusted ministration
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,
1 The American colonies being lost.