(Deil na they never mair no 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, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt I' th' first she meets ! For G-d sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, E'en cowe the caddie! Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Could he some commutation broach, Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; + A worthy old bostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studied politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch drink. 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, An' kick your place, God bless your honours a' your days, That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble poet sings an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. LET half-stary'd slaves in warmer skies But blythe and frisky, She eyes her free-born martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance 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; To stan' or rin, Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throwther, But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 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! An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, In clime and season; But tell me whisky's name in Greek, I'l tell the reason.. Scotland, my auld respected mither ! Ye tine your dam; Freedom and whisky gang thegither! Tak aff your dram ! UPON a simmer Sunday morn, When Nature's face is fair, I walked forth to view the corn, Hypocrisy à-la-mode, ته Holy fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a sacramental occasion. The rising sun owre Galston muirs, Fu' sweet that day. As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad, The third, that gaed a-wee a-back, Was in the fashion shining, Fu' gay that day. The twa appear'd like sisters twin, Their visage, wither'd, lang an' thin, The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, As light as ony lambie, An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, As soon as e'er she saw me, Fu' kind that day. Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass, I think ye seem to ken me; I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck A screed some day. My name is Fun-your cronie dear, An' this is Superstition here, An' that's Hypocrisy. I'm gaun to ********* Holy Fair, Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, At them this day. Quoth I, With a' my heart I'll do't; For roads were clad, frae side to side, In droves that day. Here farmers gash, in ridin graith Gaed hoddin by their cotters; There, swankies young, in braw braid claith In silks and scarlets glitter; Wi' sweet milk cheese, in monie a whang, An' farls bak'd wi' butter Fu' crump that day. When by the plate we set our nose, On ev'ry side they're gathrin, Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stools, An' some are busy blethrin Right loud that day. Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, An' screen our countra gentry, There, racer Jess, an' twa-three wh-res, Here sits a raw of tittlin jades, Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock For fun this day. Here some are thinkin on their sins, Ane curses feet that fyl'd his ships, |