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When neebors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel L

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! But monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor plackless devils like mysel!

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass of whisky punch

Wi' honest men.

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks ! Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor verses!

Thou comes

they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's a***s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! Scotland lament frae coast to coast! Now colic grips, an' barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast

Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers !.

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d-n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak' a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

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YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple Poet's prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
Your Honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her a—

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust!

*This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On Aquavitæ ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
An' move their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The honest, open, naked truth:

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,

His servants humble:

The muckle devil blaw ye south,

If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom

Wi' them wha grant 'em

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want 'em.

In gath❜ring votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack;
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,
An' hum an' haw;

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack
Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle; An' d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle,

Seizin a Stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel
Or lampit shell.

Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard Smuggler right behint her An cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, Colleaguing join,

Picking her pouch as bare as winter
Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld Mither's pot

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!
But could I like Montgomeries fight,

Or gab like Boswell,

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,

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 round the period an' pause,

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