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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.
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 frisky She eyes her free-born martial boys Tak aff their Whisky.
That tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While Fragrance blooms, and Beauty charms,
