THE AUTHOR'S

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER*

TO THE

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,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple Poet's prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas!

*This was written before the act anent the Scotch

Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

C 2

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

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin 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 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,

But raise your arm,

an' fidge your back,
An' hum an' haw;

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!

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,
An' wi' 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-gabbet Highland Baron,

The Laird o' Graham; †

An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,

Dundas his name.

Erskine,

Sir Adam Ferguson. E.

The present Duke of Montrose. E.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie;

An' monie 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 na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud

About her Whisky.

An' L-d, 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