Till skelpt a shot; — they're aff a throwther,
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 na 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 an' season;
But tell me Whiskey's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason!
Scotland, my auld respected mither!
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,
Ye tine your dam;
(Freedom an' Whiskey gang thegither!
Tak aff your dram.
O Prince! O Chief of many-throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war.
O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches.
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame,
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin';
Whiles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'
Tirling the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
In lanely glens you like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her prayers, douce honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin',
Wi' eerie drone;
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin',
Wi' heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright,
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,
Wi' waving sough,
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick-quaick-
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,
On whistling wings.
Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill:
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen
As yell's the Bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidinen, for.d, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
And float the jingling icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction;
An' 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their destruction.
An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Mason's mystic word an' grip,
In storins an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to h-ll
Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pr
An' a' the saul of love they she'd
The raptur'd hour;
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r :
Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog Ye came to Paradise incog.,
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!)
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
'Mang better folk,
An' sklented on the Man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs an' blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
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