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 ftreets,

An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' th' firft fhe meets!

For G-d fake, Sirs! then fpeak her fair,
An' flraik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle house repair

Wi' inftant fpeed,

An' ftrive, 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' fend him to his dicing-box

An' fportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's,
I'll be his debt twa mafhlum bonnocks,
An' drink his health in auld Nanfe Tinnock's
Nine times a-week,

If he fome fcheme, like tea an' winnock's,

Wad kindly feek.

'Could he fome commutation broach,

I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,

* A worthy old Hoftefs of the Author's in Mauchline, where he fometimes ftudied Politics over a glafs of gude auld Scotch Drink.

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 juft a devil wi' a rung;

An' if the promife auld or young

To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be ftrung,

She'll no defert.

An' now, ye chofen Five-and-Forty, May fill your Müther's heart fupport ye; Then, tho' a Minifter grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll fnap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honors, a' your days, Wi' fowps o' kail an' brats o' claife,

In fpite o' a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie's!

While Rab his name is.

Your humble Bardie fings an' prays

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-flary'd flaves in warmer fkies, See future wines, rich-cluft'ring, rise ; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies;

But, blyth 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 fwarms, The fcented groves,

Or hounded forth, difhonor arms

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their fhouther;
They downa bide the flink o' powther;
Their bauldeft thought's a bank'ring fwither
To flan' or rin,

Till skelp-a fhot-they're aff, a' throwther,
To fave their skin.

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, fuch 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 han' a welcome gies him 3

An' when he fa's,

His lateft draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their folemn een may steek,

An' raise a philofophic reek,
An' phyfically causes feek,

In clime an' feafon,

But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reafon.

Scotland, my auld, refpected Mither Tho' whyles ye moiflify your leather, Till whare ye fit, on craps o' heather,

Ye tine your

Freedom and Whisky gang thegither,

dam

Tak aff your dram!

THE HOLY FAIR.*

A robe of feeming truth and truft
Hid crafty obfervation;

And fecret hung, with poifon'd cruß,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget fhow'd,
Dye-varying, on the pigeon,
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Riligion.

I.

Hypocrify a-la-mode.

UPON a fimmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' fnuff the caller air.

The rifing fun, owre Galfton muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin;

The hares were hirplin down the furs,

The lav'rocks they were chantin

Fu' fweet that day.

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the Weft of Scotland, for a facramental occafion.

II.

As lightfomely I glowr'd abroad,
To fee a scene sae gay,

Three Hizzies, early at the road,

Cam skelpin up the way.

Twa had manteeles o' dolefu black,
But ane wi' lyart lining ;

The third that gaed a wee a-back,

Was in the fashion fhining

Fu' gay that day.

III.

The twa appear'd like fifters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;
Their vifage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' four as ony flaes:

The third cam up, hap-ftep-an'-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,

An' wi' a curchie low did ftoop,

As foon as e'er fhe faw me,

Fu' kind that day.

.IV.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, 'Sweet lafs

• I think ye feem to ken me; I'm fure I've seen that bonie face, • But yet I canna name ye.' Quo' fhe, an' laughin as she spak, An' taks me by the hauns,

Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck

• Of a' the ten commauns

A fcreed fome day.