speak out, an' never fash your thumb!
let posts an' pensions sink or soom
wi' them wha grant them;
if honestly they cannae,
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 somemutation 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;
deathes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;
wi'bluidy hand a wee 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 the ordination the ordination
for sense they little owe to frugal heav'n—
to please the mob, they hide the little giv'n.
kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an' claw,
an' pour your creeshie nations;
an' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
of a' denominations;
swith to the ligh kirk, ane an' a'
an' there tak up your stations;
then aff to begbie's in a raw,
an' pour divine libations
for joy this day.
curstmon-sense, that imp o' hell,
cam in wi' maggie lauder;
but oliphant aft made her yell,
an' russell sair misca'd her:
this day mackinlay taks the flail,
an' he's the boy will blaud her!
he'll clap a shangan on her tail,
an' set the bairns to daud her
wi' dirt this day.
mak haste an' turn king david owre,
and lilt wi' holy clangor;
o' double versee gie us four,
an' skirl up the bangor:
this day the kirk kicks up a stoure;
nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
for heresy is in her pow'r,
and gloriously she'll whang her
wi' pith this day.
e, let a proper text be read,
an' touch it aff wi' vigour,
how graceless ham leugh at his dad,
which made canaan a nigger;
or phineas drove the murdering blade,
wi' whore-abhorring rigour;
or zipporah, the scauldin jad,