THE AUTHOR'S

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER*

TO THE

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES

IN THE

HOUSE OF COMMONS.

Dearest of Distillation! last and best

-How art thou lost!.

PARODY ON MILTON.

YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple Poet's prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
Your Honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her a—

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust!

This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

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

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 muckle 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❜ring 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 greeting owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle; An' d-mn'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, cantie Carlin 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 damn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name.

Erskine, a sponkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederich, an' Ilay ; 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 !)

* Sir Adam Ferguson. E.

The present Duke of Montrose. E

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' durk 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 gie him't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the caddie!

An' send him to his dicing-box

An' sportin lady.

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

* A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink.