LITMIR.BIZ

      “Thee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,

      If bardies e’er are represented,

      I ken if that yere sword were wanted

      Ye’d lend yere hand;

      But when there’s aught to say anent it

      Yere at a stand.”

      The poet was not sure that Montgomery would think the compliment to his ready hand an excuse in full for the allusion to his unready tongue, and omitted the stanza.]

      Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,

      Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,

      An’ doucely manage our affairs

      In Parliament,

      To you a simple Bardie’s prayers

      Are humbly sent.

      Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!

      Your honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,

      To see her sittin’ on her a—e

      Low i’ the dust,

      An’ scriechin’ 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 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 an’ Scotland’s drouth,

      His servants humble:

      The muckie devil blaw ye south,

      If ye dissemble!

      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 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 crack

      Before them a’.

      Paint Scotland greetin’ owre her thrizzle,

      Her mutchkin stoup as toom’s a whissle:

      An’ damn’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’ her 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 I wad draw tight,

      An’ tie some hose well.

      God bless your honours, can ye see’t,

      The kind, auld, canty carlin greet,

      An’ no get warmly on your feet,

      An’ gar them hear it!

      An’ tell them with a patriot heat,

      Ye winna bear it?

      Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,

      To round the period an’ pause,

      An’ wi’ rhetorie 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;[46]

      An’ that glib-gabbet Highland baron,

      The Laird o’ Graham;[47]

      An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarren,

      Dundas his name.

      Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;

      True Campbells, Frederick an’ Hay;

      An’ Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie:

      An’ monie ithers,

      Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

      Might own for brithers.

      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;

      (Deil na they never mair do guid,

      Play’d her that pliskie!)

      An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud

      About her whiskey.

      An’ L—d, if once they pit her till’t,

      Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,

      An’ durk an’ pistol at her belt,

      She’ll tak the streets,

      An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,

      I’ th’ first she meets!

      For God 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 gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!

      E’en

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