The Author’s Earnest Cry and Prayer
To the Right Honourable and Honourable ScotchRepresentatives in the House of Commons.^1
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 affairsIn parliament,To you a simple poet’s pray’rsAre humbly sent.
Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,To see her sittin on her arseLow i’ the dust,And scriechinhout 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 restrictionOn aqua-vitae;An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,An’ move their pity.
Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youthThe honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,His servants humble:The muckle deevil blaw you southIf ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!Let posts an’ pensions sink or soomWi’ them wha grant them;If honestly they canna come,Far better want them.
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 crackBefore them a’.
Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a stell,Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,Or limpet shell!
Then, on the tither hand present her—A blackguard smuggler right behint her,An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintnerColleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winterOf 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 potThus dung in staves,An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groatBy 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,^2There’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-heatYe winna bear it?
Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an’ pause,An’ with rhetoric clause on clauseTo mak harangues;Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’sAuld Scotland’s wrangs.
Dempster,^3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’;Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;^4An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,The Laird o’ Graham;^5An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,Dundas his name:^6
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;^7True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;^9An’ mony ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.
See sodger Hugh,^10 my watchman stented,If poets e’er are represented;I ken if that your sword were wanted,Ye’d lend a 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;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play’d her that pliskie!)An’ now she’s like to rin red-wudAbout her whisky.
An’ Lord! 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’ the 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 an’ lear,To get remead.
Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!E’en cowe the cadie!An’ send him to his dicing boxAn’ sportin’ lady.
Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, ^11I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s ^12Nine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He needna fear their foul reproachNor 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 youngTo tak their part,Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,She’ll no desert.
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still you mither’s heart support ye;Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,An’ kick your place,Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty,Before his face.
God bless your Honours, a’ your days,Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,That haunt St. Jamie’s!Your humble poet sings an’ prays,While Rab his name is.
This was written before the Act anent the
Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and
the author return their most grateful thanks.—R.B. ↩James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. ↩
George Dempster of Dunnichen. ↩
Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. ↩
The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of
Montrose. ↩Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. ↩
Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. ↩
Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. ↩
Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. ↩
Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. ↩
Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. ↩
A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline,
where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld
Scotch Drink.—R.B. ↩