Yon 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 young

To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be ftrung,

She'll no defert.

And now, ye chosen FIVE AND FOR

TY,

May ftill your Mither's heart fupport ye;

Then, tho' a Minifter grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll fnap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honors, a' your days,

Wi' fowps o' kail and brats o' claise,

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

POSTSCRIPT,

Let half-ftarv'd flaves in warmer skies, See future wines, rich-cluft'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blythe an' frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,

While Fragrance blooms an' Beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The fcented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their fhouther; They downa bide the ftink o' powther;

Their bauldeft thought's a hank'ring fwither, To ftan' or rin,

Till skelp a fhot- they're aff, a' throw

'ther,

To fave their skin.

But bring a SCOTCHMAN frae his

hill,

Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,

Say, fuch 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 fees him;

Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their folemn een may fteek,

An' raise a philofophic reek,

An' phyfically caufes feek,

In clime an' feafon,

But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reason.

SCOTLAND, my auld, refpected Mither!

Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye fit, on craps o' heather,

Ye tine your dam;

FREEDOM and WHISKY gang the

gither,

Tak aff your dram!

THE

HOLY FAIR.

A robe of feeming truth and trust
Hid crafty obfervation;

And fecret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mafk that like the gorget fhow'd,
Dye-varying, on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

U

I.

PON a fimmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,

An' fnuff the callor air.