poor verses!
thou es—they rattle in their ranks,
at ither's a-s!
thee, ferintosh! o sadly lost!
sd ment frae coast to coast!
now colic grips, an' barkin hoast
may kill us a';
for loyal forbes' charter'd boast
is ta'en awa?
thae curst horse-leeches o' the' excise,
wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
haud up thy han', deil! awice, thrice!
there, seize the blinkers!
an' bake them up in brunstane pies
for poor damn'd drinkers.
fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
hale breeks, a se, an
Scotch Drink(8/9)