The Poetry of Robert Burns :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs
In Parliament,
To you a simple Bardie's prayers
Are humbly sent.

II

Alas! my roupet Muse is haerse!
Your Honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her arse
Low i' the dust,
And scriechin out prosaic verse,
An' like to brust!

III

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

IV

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!

V

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

VI

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'.

VII

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;
An' damn'd excisemen in a bustle,
Seizin a stell,
Triumphant, crushin't like a mussel,
Or lampit shell!

VIII

Then, on the tither hand, present her—
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner
Colleaguing join,
Pickin her pouch as bare as winter
Of a' kind coin.

IX

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?

X

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trode i' the mire out o' sight!
But could I like Montgomeries nght,
Or gab like Boswell,
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An' tie some hose well.

XI

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?

XII

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an' pause,
An' with rhetòric clause on clause
To mak harangues:
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's
Auld Scotland's wrangs.

XIII

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron,
The Laird o' Graham;
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,
Dundas his name:

XIV

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;
An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;
An' monie ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.

XV

Thee sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,
If Bardies e'er are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted,
Ye'd lend your hand;
But when there's ought to say anent it,
Ye're at a stand.

XVI

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.

XVII

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.

XVIII

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!

XIX

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.

XX

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.

XXI

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.

XXII

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.

XXIII

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.

XXIV

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.

XXV

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

POSTSCRIPT

XXVI

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
Tak aff their whisky.

XXVII

What tho' their Phœbus 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!

XXVIII

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.

XXIX

But bring a Scotsman 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.

XXX

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him;
An' when he fa's,
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him
In faint huzzas.

XXXI

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.

XXXII

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till whare ye sit on craps o' heather
Ye tine your dam,
Freedom and whisky gang thegither,
Tak aff your dram!