Thou art the life o' public haunts; By thee infpir'd, When gaping they befiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, O fweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekin on a New-year mornin, In cog or bicker, An' juft a wee drap fp'ritual burn in, An' gufty fucker! When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' Ploughmen gather wi` their graith, O rare! to fee the fizz an' freath, I' th' lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like Death At ev'ry chap. Nae mercy, then, for airn or fteel; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel Brings hard owrehip, wi fturdy wheel The ftrong forehammer, Till block an' ftuddie ring an' reel Wi' dinfome clamour When skirlin weanies fee the light, Thou maks the goffips clatter bright, How fumbling Cuifs their Dearies flight, Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a focial night, Or plack frae them. When neebors anger at a plea, An' juft as wud as wud can be, How eafy can the barlie-brie Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee Το To tafte the barrel. Alake! that e'er my Mufe has reason, wyte her countrymen `wi' treafon ! But monie daily wet their weason Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter feafon, E'er fpier their price. Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell fource o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hash O' half his days; An' fends, befide, auld Scotland's cash To her warft faes. Ye Scots, wha wifh auld Scotland well, Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like myfell, *It fets you ill, Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha' twifts his gruntle wi' a glunch O Whisky, foul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks! Whan wanting thee, what tunelefs cranks' Are my poor verses! At ither's a Thou comes—— they rattle i' their ranks Thee Ferintofh, O fadly lost! Scotland lament frae coaft to coaft! Now cholic-grips, an' barkin hoast May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd hoaft Is ta en awa! Thae curft horfe-leeches o' th' Excife, Wha mak the Whisky ftells their prize! Haud up thy han' Deil! ance, twice, thrice! There, feize the blinkers An' bake them up in brinftane pies For poord-a'd drinkers. Fortune, if thou'll but gie me ftill Hale breeks, a fcone, an whiskey gill, An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, Tak' a' the reft, An' deal't about as thy blind fkill Directs thee beft. THE AUTHOR's EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER*, To the Right Honourable and Honourable, the Scotch Reprefentatives in the Houfe of Commons.. Y Dearest of Diftillation! laft and beft! ̧ How art thou loft !— PARODY ON MILTON. E Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, Wha represent our broughs an' fhires, An' doucely manage our affairs In Parliament, To you a fimple Bardie's prayers Are humbly fent. Alas! my roupet Mufe is hearfe! Your Honour's hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To fee her fittin on her a Low i' the duft, An' fciiechen out profaic verfe, An' like to brufl! This was wrote before the A&t aneht the Scotch Distilleries, of feffion 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their moft g: ateful thanks. |