A Night Out with Burns by Robert Burns

join,—
    Picking her pouch as bare as Winter,
    Of a’ kind coin.

    Is there, that bears the name o’ S COT ,
    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 M ONTGOMERIES fight,
    Or gab like B OSWEL ,
    There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
    An’ tye some hose well.
    God bless your Honors, 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 , a true-blue Scot I’se warran;
    Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;
    An’ that glib-gabbet Highlan Baron,
    The Laird o’ Graham ;
    And ane, a chap that’s damn’d auldfarran,
    Dundass his name.

    Erskine , a spunkie norland billie;
    True Campbels, Frederic an’ Ilay ;
    An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie ;
    An’ mony ithers,
    Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
    Might own for brithers.
    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 reekan 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’ th’ first she meets!

    For God-sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,
    An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,
    An’ to the muckle house repair,
    Wi’ instant speed,
    An’ strive, wi’ a’ your Wit an’ Lear,
    To get remead.
    Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox ,
    May taunt you wi’ his jeers an’ 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 yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock ’s,
    I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
    An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock ’s 2
    Nine times a week,
    If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,
    Wad kindly seek.

    Could he some commutation broach,
    I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
    He need na 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 F IVE AND F ORTY ,
    May still your Mither’s heart support ye;
    Then tho’ a Minister grow dorty,
    An’ kick your place,
    Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,
    Before his face.

    God bless your Honors, a’ your days,
    Wi’ sowps o’ kail an’ brats o’ claise,
    In spite of a’ the thievish kaes
    That haunt St Jamie ’s!
    Your humble Bardie sings an’ prays
    While Rab his name is.

    P OSTSCRIPT
    Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies,
    See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;
    Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,
    But blyth an’ frisky,
    She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,
    Tak aff their Whisky.

    What tho’ their Phebus kinder warms,
    While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!
    When wretches range, in famish’d