(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,
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
An' dirk an' pistol at her belt,

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' straik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear
To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ;
But guie him't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the caddie!

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's*
Nine times a-week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their fool reproach

Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch potch,

The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She's just a devil wi' a rung;

+ 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,
May still your Mither's heart support ye;
Then, though a Minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.

God bless your honours a' your days,
Wi' 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.

POSTSCRIPT.

LET half-stary'd slaves in warmer skies
See future wines rich clustering rise ;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

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;
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither

To stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throwther,
To save their skin.

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 nae 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 philosophie reek,
An' physically causes seek,

In clime and season;

But tell me whisky's name in Greek,

I'l tell the reason..

Scotland, my auld respected mither !
Tho' whiles you moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,

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,
An' snuff the caller air,

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,
Wi' glorious light was glintin;
The hares were hirplin down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way:
Twa had manteeles o' doleful black,
But ane wi' lyard lining;

The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,

Was in the fashion shining,

Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;

Their visage, wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes :

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,
But yet I canna name ye.'.
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,

Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck
Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

My name is Fun-your cronie dear,
The nearest frieud ye hae ;

An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to ********* Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin:

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,
We will get famous laughin

At them this day.

Quoth I, With a' my heart I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;
Faith we'se hae fine remarkin!'
Then I gaed hame at crowdie time,
An' soon I made me ready :

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a wearie body,

In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith

Gaed hoddin by their cotters;

There, swankies young, in braw braid claith
Are springin o'er the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

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,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black-Bonnet throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,

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,
Are blinking at the entry.

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,
An' some upo' their claes;

Ane curses feet that fyl'd his ships,
Anither sighs an' prays: