There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;
     But this is gentry’s life in common.

     By this, the sun was out of sight,
     An’ darker gloamin brought the night;
     The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;
     The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;
     When up they gat an’ shook their lugs,
     Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs;
     An’ each took aff his several way,
     Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer

     To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch
     Representatives in the House of Commons.^1

     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!

     [Footnote 1:  This was written before the Act anent the
     Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and
     the author return their most grateful thanks.—­R.B.]

     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.