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,^2
     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,^3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’;
     Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;^4
     An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
     The Laird o’ Graham;^5
     An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,
     Dundas his name:^6

     Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;^7
     True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8

     [Footnote 2:  James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.]

     [Footnote 3:  George Dempster of Dunnichen.]

     [Footnote 4:  Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.]

     [Footnote 5:  The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of
      Montrose.]

     [Footnote 6:  Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.]

     [Footnote 7:  Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.]

     [Footnote 8:  Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke
     of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland,
     afterward President of the Court of Session.]

     An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;^9
     An’ mony ithers,
     Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
     Might own for brithers.

     See sodger Hugh,^10 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!