The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons
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 roupit muse is hearse; Your Honours’ heart wi’ grief ‘twad pierce To see her sitten on her arse Low i’ the dust, An’ screechin’ out prosaic verse, An’ like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction On aqua vitae; 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 them; If honestly they canna come, Far better want them. In gath’rin’ 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 greetin owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle: An’ damn’d Excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a stall, Triumphant crushin’t like a mussle Or limpet shell. Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, Colleaguing join, Pickin’ 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 ‘a 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, An’ with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues; Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Auld Scotland’s wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I’se warran’; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; An’ that glib-gabbed Highland Baron, The Laird o’ Graham; An’ ane, a chap that ‘s damn’d auldfarran, Dundas his name; Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederik an’ Ilay; An’ Livingston, the bauld Sir Willie; An’ mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye’ll see’t or lang, She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, Anither sang. This while she’s been in crankous mood; Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid (Deil nor they never mair do guid Play’d her that pliskie!) An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud About her whisky. An’ Lord, if ance they pit her till ‘t, Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, An’, durk an’ pistol at her belt, She’ll tak the streets, An’ rin her whittle to the hilt I’ th’ first she meets! For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, An’ to the muckle house repair Wi’ instant speed An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit and lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ mocks; But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! E’en cowe the cadie, An’ send him to his dicing-box An’ sportin’ lady. Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s I’ll be his debt twa mash1um bannocks, An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; An’ if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, She’ll no desert. An’ now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still your Mither’s heart support ye; Then, though a minister grow dorty, An’ kick your place, Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours a’ your days Wi’ sowps o’ kail an’ brats o’ claes, In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes That haunt St. Jamie’s! Your humble poet sings an’ prays, While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines rich-clust’ring rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies, But, blythe an’ frisky, She eyes her free-born martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms an’ beauty charms, When wretches range in famish’d swarms The scented groves, Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o’ powther; Their bau]dest thought’s a hank’ring swither To stan’ or rin, Till skelp! a shot - they’re aff, a’ throu’ther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say ‘Such is royal George’s will, An’ there’s the foe!’ He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’ bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An’, when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek In clime an’ season; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek, I’ll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld respected Mither! Tho’ whyles ye moistify your leather, Till where ye sit, on craps o’ heather, Ye tine your dam- Freedom and Whisky gang thegither! Tak aff your dram!
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