THE
AUTHOR'S
EARNEST
CRY
AND
PRAYER
,
TO
THE
RIGHT
HONORABLE
AND
HONORABLE
,
THE
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'
dousely
manage
our
affairs
In
Parliament
,
To
you
a
simple
Bardie's
pray'rs
Are
humbly
sent
.
Alas
!
my
roupet
Muse
:
is
haerse
!
Your
Honor's
hearts
wi'
grief
'twad
pierce
To
see
her
sittan
on
her
arse
Low
i'
the
dust
,
An'
scriechan
out
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
AQUAVITÆ
;
An'
rouse
them
up
to
strong
conviction
,
An'
move
their
pity
.
Stand
forth
and
tell
yon
PREMIER
YOUTH
,
The
honest
,
open
,
naked
truth
:
Tell
him
o'
mine
an'
Scotland's
drouth
,
His
servants
humble
:
The
muckle
devil
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
swoom
'
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
greetan
owre
her
thrissle
;
Her
mutchkin
stowp
as
toom's
a
whissle
;
An'
d
—
mn'd
Excise-men
in
a
bussle
,
Seizan
a
Stell
,
Triumphant
crushan't
like
a
muscle
Or
laimpet
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'
tye
some
hose
well
.
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
?
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
,
chalk
Kilkerran
;
An'
that
glib-gabbet
Highland
Baron
,
The
Laird
o'
Graham
;
And
ane
,
a
chap
that's
d
—
mn'd
auldfarran
,
Dundas
his
name
.
Erskine
,
a
spunkie
norland
billie
;
True
Campbells
,
Frederick
an'
Ilay
;
An'
Livistone
,
the
bauld
Sir
Willie
;
An'
monie
ithers
,
Whom
auld
Demosthenes
or
Tully
Might
own
for
brithers
.
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
reekan
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'
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
streets
,
An'
rin
her
whittle
to
the
hilt
,
I'
th'
first
she
meets
!
For
G
—
d-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
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
.
Tell
yon
guid
bluid
o'
auld
Boconnock's
,
I'll
be
his
debt
twa
mashlum
bonnocks
,
An'
drink
his
health
in
auld
A
worthy
old
Hostess
of
the
Author's
in
Mauchline
,
where
he
sometimes
studies
Politics
over
a
glass
of
guid
,
auld
Scotch
Drink
.
Nanse
Tinnoch's
.
Nine
times
a
week
,
If
he
some
scheme
,
like
tea
an'
winnocks
,
Wad
kindly
seek
.
Could
he
some
commutation
broach
,
I'll
pledge
my
aith
in
guid
braid
Scotch
,
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
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
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
.
God
bless
your
Honors
,
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
Bardie
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'er
envies
,
But
blythe
an'
frisky
,
She
eyes
her
freeborn
,
martial
boys
,
Tak
aff
their
Whisky
.
What
tho'
their
Phœbus
kinder
warms
,
While
Fragrance
blooms
an'
Beauty
charms
!
When
wretches
range
,
in
famish'd
swarms
,
The
scented
groves
,
Or
hounded
forth
,
dishonor
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
fave
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
han'
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'
whyles
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
!