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' dousely manage our affairs
In Parliament,
To you a simple Bardie's pray'rs
Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is haerse!
Your Honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittan on her arse
Low i' the dust,
An' scriechan out prosaic verse,
An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland and me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On Aquavitae;
An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
An' move their pity.

Stand forth and tell yon Premier Youth
The honest, open, naked truth;
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,
His servants humble:
The muckle devil blaw you south,
If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?
Speak out an' never fash your thumb!
Let posts an' pensions sink or swoom
Wi' them wha grant them:
If honestly they canna come,
Far better want them.

In gath'rin votes ye 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 greetan owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;
An' damn'd Excise-men in a bussle,
Seizan a Stell,
Triumphant crushan't like a muscle
Or laimpet 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 Boswel,
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An' tye some hose well.

God bless your Honors, 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' with 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 Highlan Baron,
The Laird o' Graham;
And ane, a chap that 's damn'd auldfarran,
Dundass his name.

Erskine, a spunkie norland billie;
True Campbels, Frederic an' Ilay;
An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;
An' mony 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 reekan 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 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 an' 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 cadie!
An' send him to his dicing box,
An' sportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid of 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 foul 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;
An' if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,
Tho' by the neck she should be strung,
She'll no desert.

And now, ye chosen Five and Forty,
May still your Mither's heart support ye;
Then tho' a Minister grow dorty,
An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.

God bless your Honors, a' your days,
Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise,
In spite of a' the thievish kaes
That haunt St. Jamie's!
Your humble Bardie sings an' prays
While Rab his name is.

Postcript

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies,
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blyth an' frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,
Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phebus kinder warms,
While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonor 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' throu'ther,
To save their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a highlan 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, with 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 philosophic reek,
An' physically causes seek,
In clime an' season,
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,
Till when ye speak, ye aiblins blether;
Yet deil-mak-matter!
Freedom and Whisky gang thegither,
Tak aff your whitter.