Fintry, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my Muse, Friend o' my Life,
Are ye as idle 's I am?
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,
And ye shall see me try him.—

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Wha left the all-important cares
Of fiddles, wh-res and hunters;
And, bent on buying Borough-towns,
Cam shaking hands wi' wabster-louns,
And kissin barefit bunters.—

Confusion thro' our Boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad
Of mad, unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry Buff and Blue unfurled,
And Westerha and Hopeton hurled
To every whig defiance.—

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star,
Besides, he hated Bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Cesarean fight,
Or Ciceronian pleading.—

O, for a throat like huge Monsmeg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig,
Beneath Drumlanrig's banner!
Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of Politics
To win immortal honor.—

Mcmurdo and his lovely Spouse,
(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows)
Led on the Loves and Graces:
She won each gaping Burgess' heart,
While he, sub rosa, play'd his part
Among their wives and lasses.—

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd Core,
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour
Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,
And bar'd the treason under.—

In either wing two champions fought;
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought
The wildest savage Tory:
While Welsh, who never flinch'd his ground,
High-wav'd his magnum bonum round
With Cyclopean fury.—

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,
And threaten'd worse damnation.—

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd,
With these what Tory warriors clos'd,
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons, extended long and large,
With headlong speed rush to the charge,
Like furious devils driving.—

What Verse can sing, or Prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody Fate,
Amid this mighty tulzie!
Grim Horror girn'd; pale Terror roar'd,
As Murder at his thrapple shor'd;
And Hell mix'd in the brulzie.—

As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightenings fire the stormy lift,
Hurl down wi' crashing rattle;
As flames among a hundred woods,
As headlong foam a hundred floods,
Such is the rage of battle.—

The stubborn Tories dare to die,
As soon the rooted oaks would fly
Before th' approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
Against the Buchan bullers.—

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,
And think on former daring:
The muffled Murtherer of Charles
The Magna charta flag unfurls,
All deadly gules it 's bearing.—

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver!
(Forgive, forgive! much wrong'd Montrose!
Now, Death and Hell engulph thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever.)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns,
But Fate the word has spoken:
For Woman's wit, and strength of Man,
Alas! can do but what they can;
The Tory ranks are broken.—

O, that my een were flowing burns!
My voice, a lioness that mourns
Her darling cub's undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly
From furious whigs pursuing.—

What Whig but melts for good Sir James!
Dear to his Country by the names,
Friend, Patron, Benefactor!
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopeton falls, the generous, brave;
And Stewart bold as Hector!

Thou, Pit, shalt rue this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,
And Melville melt in wailing:
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!
And Burke shall shout, O Prince, arise!
Thy power is all-prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He hears and sees the distant war,
A cool Spectator purely:
So, when the storm the forest rends,
The Robin in the hedge descends,
And patient chirps securely.—

Now, for my friends' and brethren's sakes,
And for my native Land-o'-Cakes,
I pray with holy fire;
Lord, send a rough-shod troop o' hell,
O'er a', wad Scotland buy, or sell,
And grind them in the mire!!!
I am, &c.