The Beauties of Burn's Poems/The Author's Earnest Cry

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer.

THE AUTHOR's

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYERS^[1]

To the Scottish Representatives in the House of Commons.

Dearest of Distillation! last and bestǃ——————How art thou lostǃ———Parody on Milton.

 

Ye Scottish Lords, ye Knights and 'Squires,Wha represent our Burghs and Shires,And doucely manage our affairsIn Parliament,To you a simple Poet's pray'rsAre humbly sent.

Alas! my rupet Muse is hearse,Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,To see her sitting on her a—Low i' the dust,And screechin out prosaic verse,And like to burst!

Tell then wha hae the chief direction,Scotland and me's in great affliction, E'er since they laid that curst restrictionOn Aquavitæ;And rouse them up to strong conviction,And move their pity.

Stand forth, and tell your Premier Youth,The honest, open, naked truth;Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth,His servants humble:The muckle devil blaow ye south,If ye dissemble.

Does ony great man glunch and gloom,Speak out, and never fash your thumb,Let posts or pensions sink or soomWi' them wha grant 'em,If honestly they canna come,Far better want 'em.

In gath'rin votes you were nae slack,Now stand as tightly by your tack;Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back,And hum and haw,But raise your arm, and tell your crackBefore them a'.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissel,Her matchkin stoup as toom's a whissel,And damn'd Excisemen, in a bussel,Seizin a Stell,Triumphant, crush'nt like a mussel,Or lampit-shell.

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 potThus dung in staves,And plunder'd o' her hindmost groatBy 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 clauseTo make harangues;Then echo thro' St. Stephen's wa's,And Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true blue Scot, I'se warran,The aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran,And that glib-gabbet Highland baron,The Laird o' Grahame,And ane, a chap that's d—n'd auldfarran,Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie,True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay,And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie,And monie ithers,Wham auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle,Or faith I'll wad my new pleugh-pettie,You'll see't or lang,She'll teach you, wi' a reckin whittle,Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood,Her lost Militia fir'd her blude,(Deil na they never mair do gude,Play'd her that pliskie,)And now she's like to rin red-wudAbout her Whisky.

And, L—d, if ance they pit her til't,Her tartan petticoat, she'll kilt,And durk and pistol at her belt,She tak the streets,And rin her whittle to the hiltI' the first she meets?

For G-dsake, Sirs, then speak her fair!And straik her canie wi' the hair,And to the muckle house repairWi' instant speed,And strive wi' a' your wit and learTo get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinker, Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks,But gie him't het, my hearty cocks,E'en cowe the caddie,And send him to his dicing-box,And sporting-lady.

Tell yon gude blude o' auld Boconnock's,I'll be in's debt twa mashlum bannocks,And drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnocks^[2]Nine times a-week,If he some scheme like tea and winnocks,Wad kindly seek.

Could be some commutation broach,I'll pledge my aith in gude braid Scotch,He needna tear their foul reproachNor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;She's just a deevil wi' a rung;And 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,And kick your place,Ye'll snap your fingers, poor and hearty,Before his face.

God bless your Honours a' your days,Wi' soups o' kail, and brats o' claise,In spite o' a' the thievish kaes.That haunt St. James's!Your humble Poet sings and prays,While Rab his name is. ———o——— POSTSCRIPT.

Let hauf-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies,See future wines, rich clust'ring rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,But blythe and friskyShe eyes her free-born martial boysTak aff their Whisky.

That tho' their Phœbus kinder warms,While Fragrance blooms, and Beauty charms, When wretches range in famish'd swarmsThe scented groves,Or hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hunger-droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o' powther;Their bauldest thought's a haunk'ring switherTo stan' or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throw'ther,To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say, Sic is royal George's will,And there's the foe;He has nae thought but how to killTwa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubting tease him;Death comes!—wi' fearless ee he sees him;Wi' bludy hand a welcome gies him;And when he fa's,His latest draught o' breathin lea'es himIn faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,And raise a philosophic reek,And physically causes seek,In clime and 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 yet sit on scraps o' heather,Ye tine your dam,Freedom and Whisky gang thegither,Tak aff your dram.

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819

 

1. This was wrote before the Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of Session 1786, for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.
2. A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchlin, where he sometimes studied Politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.