When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, I' th' lugget caup! Then Burnewin* comes on like death Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night, Or plack frae them. When * Burnewin-Burn-the-wind-the Blacksmith-an appro priate title. E. When neebors anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley-bree Cement the quarrel! 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! It sets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May 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 o' 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, Wha mak the Whisky stells their prize! Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, seize the blinkers! An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d-n'd drinkers. VOL. III. C Fortune! 7 Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Tak' a' the rest, An' deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best. THE 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, 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 Dis tilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks. |