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, 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. YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, In parliament, To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! 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, An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 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; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 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 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 Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, Thus dung in staves, Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, 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, |