The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer

YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,An’ doucely manage our affairsIn parliament,To you a simple poet’s pray’rs5Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,To see her sittin on her arseLow i’ the dust,10And scriechinh 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 restriction15On aqua-vitae;An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,An’ move their pity.

Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youthThe honest, open, naked truth:20Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,His servants humble:The muckle deevil blaw you southIf ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?25Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!Let posts an’ pensions sink or soomWi’ them wha grant them;If honestly they canna come,Far better want them.30

In gath’rin votes you were na slack;Now stand as tightly by your tack:Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back,An’ hum an’ haw;But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack35Before them a’.

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;An’ d⁠—mn’d excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a stell,40Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,Or limpet shell!

Then, on the tither hand present her⁠—A blackguard smuggler right behint her,An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner45Colleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf a’ kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,50To see his poor auld mither’s potThus dung in staves,An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?

Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,55Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight?But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell, 2There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An’ tie some hose well.60

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-heat65Ye winna bear it?

Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an’ pause,An’ with rhetoric clause on clauseTo mak harangues;70Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’sAuld Scotland’s wrangs.

Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’;Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,75The Laird o’ Graham; 5An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,Dundas his name: 6

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 880An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9An’ mony ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.

See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented,85If poets e’er are represented;I ken if that your sword were wanted,Ye’d lend a hand;But when there’s ought to say anent it,Ye’re at a stand.90

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,95Anither 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!)100An’ now she’s like to rin red-wudAbout her whisky.

An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t,Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,An’durk an’ pistol at her belt,105She’ll tak the streets,An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,I’ the first she meets!

For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,110An’ to the muckle house repair,Wi’ instant speed,An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear,To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,115May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!E’en cowe the cadie!An’ send him to his dicing boxAn’ sportin’ lady.120

Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, 11I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s 12Nine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,125Was kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He needna fear their foul reproachNor erudition,130Yon 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 young135To tak their part,Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,She’ll no desert.

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still you mither’s heart support ye;140Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,An’ kick your place,Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty,Before his face.

God bless your Honours, a’ your days,145Wi’ 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.150

POSTSCRIPTLET half-starv’d slaves in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,But, blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn, martial boys155Tak 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;160Or, hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves!

Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o’ powther;Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither165To stan’ or rin,Till skelp⁠—a shot⁠—they’re aff, a’throw’ther,To save their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,170Say, such is royal George’s will,An’ there’s the foe!He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;175Death 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 himIn faint huzzas.180

Sages their solemn een may steek,An’ raise a philosophic reek,An’ physically causes seek,In clime an’ season;But tell me whisky’s name in Greek185I’ll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,Ye tine your dam;190Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!Take aff your dram!

Note 1. This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.⁠—R. B. [back]Note 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. [back]Note 3. George Dempster of Dunnichen. [back]195Note 4. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. [back]Note 5. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. [back]Note 6. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. [back]Note 7. Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. [back]Note 8. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. [back]200Note 9. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. [back]Note 10. Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. [back]Note 11. Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. [back]Note 12. A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.⁠—R. B. [back]