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Then on the tither hand present her,
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
And cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner,
Colleaguin 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-blude rising hot,
To see his poor auld Mither's pot
Thus dung in staves,
And plunder'd o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trode in the mire clean out o' sight;
But cou'd I like Montgom'rie fight,
Or gab like Boswell,
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
And tie some hose well.

God bless your Honours, can you see't,
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet,
And no get warmly to your feet,
And gar them hear it,
And tell them wi' a patriot heat,
Ye winna bear it.

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period and the pause,
And wi' rhetoric clause on clause
To make harangues;
Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's,
And Scotland's wrangs.