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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.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
Than, let them ance out owre the water,
Then up amang thae lakes and seas,
They'll mak what rules and laws they please.
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected,
When by such heads and hearts directed.
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,

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
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,

And save the honour o' the nation?

They, and be d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, power, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, overseers
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tirl the hallions to the


pretty well

strip- clowns


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 wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're oughtlins


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,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tattered gipsies pack,
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
And in my house at hame to greet you.
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle;
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate
Or, if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,



A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel deservin't;
And till ye come- Your humble servant,

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 !
May Heaven augment your blisses,
On every new birthday, ye see,
A humble poet wishes!
My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birthday dresses
Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang,
By many a lord and lady;

"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
The tinsel gifts of flattery tore,

But paid to guiltless power their willing vow,
And to the throne of virtuous kings," etc.



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
Even there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on your grace,
Your kingship to bespatter;

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
Than did ae day.

Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation!

But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,

Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,
Wad better filled their station
Than courts yon day.


1 The American colonies being lost.



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