Or reckin on a new-year morning

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath

1' th' lugget caup!
Then Burnewin* comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour,

When skirlin weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight;

Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weasons

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price,

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!

• Burnewin-burn-the-wind-the blacksmith.

Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash,

O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well;
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel!

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gout torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whisky punch

Wi' honest men.

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Thou comes- -they rattle i' their ranks

Are my poor verses!

At ither's a-s!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland laments frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, au' barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes's charter'd boast

3

Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han'; Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, seize the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor d-n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill,
An'rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

Dearest of distillation! last and best!

How art thou lost!

Parody on Millon

YE Scotish Lords, ye nights an' Squires
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,

An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple poet's pray'rs

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!

Your honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her a—

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin out prosaic verse,

An' like to burst!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On aqua vitæ ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
An' move their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier-youth,

The honest, open, naked truth :

Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth,

The muckle devil blaw ye south,

His servants humble :

If ye dissemble!

This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries

of session 1786.

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ?
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom

Wi' them wha grant 'em :

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want 'em.

In gath'rin votes you were na ṣlack;
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 crack
Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whistle :
An' d-n'd excisemen in a bussle,

Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel

Or lampit shell.

Then on the tither hand present her,
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner,

Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter

Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither's pot,

Thus dung in staves,

An' plunder'd o' their hindmost groat

By gallows knaves ?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,

Trode i' the mire out o' sight!

But could I like Montgomeries fight,

Or gab like Boswell;

There's some sark-necks 1 wad draw tight,

An' tie some hose well.

God bless your honours, can ye see't,
The kind, auld, cantic car!in greet,

An' no get warmly to your feet,

An' gar them hear it,

An' tell them wi' a patriot heat,

Ye winna bear it!

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period, an' pause,
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause

To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,

The Laird o' Graham; +
An' ane' a chap that's d-n'd auld farran,
Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederic an' Ilay;
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie;

An' monie ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

Might own for brithers,

Thee, sodga Hugh, my watchman stented,
If bardies e'er are represented;

I ken if that your sword were wanted,

Ye'd lend your hand, But when there's ought to say anent it,

Ye're at a stand.

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,
Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood,
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid:

+ Sir Adam Ferguson.

The Duke of Montrose.

Earl of Eglingtoup, then Colonel Montgomery, and represen, tative for Ayrshire.