TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.
LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
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;
An' where will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be d-d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day!
Far less to riches, pow'r, 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,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour!
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
Come thiggin' at your doors an' yetts,
Flaffin' wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An' gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assign'd your seat
"Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate;
Or (if you on your station tarrow)
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel deservin't;
An' till ye come- -Your humble servant,
LET other heroes boast their scars,
The marks of sturt and strife;
And other poets sing of wars,
The plagues of human life;
Shame fa' the fun; wi' sword and gun
To slap mankind like lumber!
I sing his name and nobler fame,
Wha multiplies our number.
Great Nature spoke, with air benign,
'Go on, ye human race!
This lower world I you resign;
Be fruitful and increase.
The liquid fire of strong desire
I've pour'd it in each bosom ;
Here, on this hand, does mankind stand,
And there is Beauty's blossom!'
The Hero of these artless strains,
A lowly Bard was he,
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains
With meikle mirth an' glee;
Kind Nature's care had given his share,
Large, of the flaming current ;
And, all devout, he never sought
To stem the sacred torrent.
He felt the powerful, high behest,
Thrill, vital, thro' and thro';
And sought a correspondent breast
To give obedience due e;
Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs,
From mildews of abortion;
And lo! the bard, a great reward,
Has got a double portion!
Auld, cantie Coil may count the day,
As annual it returns,
The third of Libra's equal sway,
That gave another Burns,
With future rhymes, in other times,
To emulate his sire;
To sing auld Coil in nobler style
With more poetic fire.
Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,
Look down with gracious eyes;
And bless auld Coila, large and long,
With multiplying joys.
Long may she stand to prop the land,
The flow'r of ancient nations;
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing,
To endless generations!
Now Kennedy, if foot or horse
E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss,
Lord! man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy,
And down the gate in faith they're worse
And mair unchancy.
But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews,
Till some bit callan brings me news
That you are there,
And if we dinna had a bouze
I'se ne'er drink mair.
It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow,
But gie me just a true good fallow
Wi' right ingine,
And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
And then we'll shine.
Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
An' sklent on poverty their joke,
Wi' you no friendship I will troke,
Nor cheap nor dear.
But if, as I'm informed weel,
Ye hate as ill's the very deil,
The flinty hearts that canna feel-
Come, Sir, here's tae you;
Hae! there's my haun'; I wiss you weel,
And gude be wi' you.
TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, ON HIS TEXT,
'And ye shall go forth, and grow up as calves of the stall.'-Mal. iv. 2.
RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Tho' Heretics may laugh;
For instance, there's yoursel just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!
And should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.
But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour,
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Stot!
Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,
The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.
And, in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the Nowte.
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