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　　The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer

　　To the Right Honourable and Honourable 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 pray'rs

　　Are humbly sent.

　　Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!

　　Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

　　To see her sittin on her arse

　　Low 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 restriction

　　On aqua-vitae;

　　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 deevil 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 soom

　　Wi' 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 crack

　　Before 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 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' 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-gabbit Highland baron,

　　The Laird o' Graham;

　　An' ane, a chap that's damn'd aulfarran',

　　Dundas his name:

　　Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;

　　True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;

　　An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;

　　An' mony ithers,

　　Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

　　Might own for brithers.

　　See sodger Hugh, 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-wud

　　About 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 box

　　An' sportin' lady.

　　Tell you guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's,

　　I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

　　An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's

　　Nine 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 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 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.

　　Postscript

　　Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies

　　See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;

　　Their lot auld Scotland ne're envies,

　　But, blythe and frisky,

　　She eyes her freeborn, martial boys

　　Tak aff their whisky.

　　What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,

　　While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,

　　When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

　　The scented groves;

　　Or, hounded forth, dishonour 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'throw'ther,

　　To save their skin.

　　But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,

　　Clap in his cheek a Highland 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, wi' 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' whiles ye moistify your leather,

　　Till, whare ye sit on craps o' heather,

　　Ye tine your dam;

　　Freedom an' whisky gang thegither!

　　Take aff your dram! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns