There, at Vienna, or Versailles, To thrum guitars an' fecht wi' nowt; Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: For Britain's guid! for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud an' faction. LUATH Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate O would they stay aback frae courts, CÆSAR L-d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them! It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat: They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, Her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel; Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst. Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless; An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard. But this is gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out of sight, An' darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons. ' Dearest of distillation! last and best -How art thou lost! PARODY ON Milton. YE Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, In parliament, To you a simple poet's pray'rs Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupit muse is hearse! Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her arse Low i' the dust, And scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, An' rouse them up to strong conviction, Stand forth an' tell yon Premier youth 1 This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.-R. B. HC VI K Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, The muckle deevil blaw you south Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Wi' them wha grant them; If honestly they canna come, Far better want them. In gath'rin votes you were na slack; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel, Then, on the tither hand present her— Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight? Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 2 An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honours! can ye see't— The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' gar them hear it, An' tell them wi' a patriot-heat Ye winna bear it? Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To mak harangues; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran'; The Laird o' Graham; An' ane, a chap that's d-mh'd auldfarran', Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;" Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. 2 James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. 3 George Dempster of Dunnichen. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. 7 Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. |