[Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.]
[Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.]
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, ^11 I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's ^12 Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Was kindly seek.
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.
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,
[Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]
[Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.--R.B.]
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble poet sings an' prays, While Rab his name is.
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.