For G-d 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 caddie!

An' send him to his dicing box

An' sportin lady.

Tell

yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

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

* A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink.

1

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, tho' 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 and brats o' claise,

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble Poet sings an'

prays

While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

POSTSCRIPT.

LET half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blithe and frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragance blooms and 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 bauldest thought's a hankʼring swither To stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a throwther,

To save their skin.

But

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 and season;

But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather;

Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,

(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!)

Tak aff your dram!

THE

THE HOLY FAIR.*

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

4 mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion."

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

I.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the caller air.

The rising sun owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin ;

The hares were hirplin down the furs,

The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' sweet that day.

II.

*Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scot

land for a sacramental occasion.