Combustion thro' our boroughs rode
Whistling his roaring pack abroad
Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding;

But left behind him heroes bright,

Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner;

Heroes and heroines commix,

All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honour.

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces:

She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part
Among their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps,
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour,

Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,

And bared the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig,* who set at nought
The wildest savage Tory:

*Provost Staig of Dumfries.

And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,
High-waved his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!

While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
'Mid Lawson's+ port entrench'd his hold,
And threaten'd worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd,
With these what Tory warriors clos'd,
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate

Amid this mighty tulzie !

Grim Horror girn'd-pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd,

And hell mix'd in the brulzie.

As highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

Hurl down with crashing rattle:
As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods,
Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die ;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly

Before th' approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.

Sheriff Welsh.

+ Lawson a wine merchant in Dumfries.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring:

The muffled murtherer* of Charles
The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,
Bold Scrimgeourt follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose !
Now death and hell engulf thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,

The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But Fate the word has spoken:
For woman's wit and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,

While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James?
Dear to his country by the names

Friend, patron, benefactor!

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save!
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!
And Stewart, bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;

And Melville melt in wailing!

The executioner of Charles I. was masked.
Graham, Marquis of Montrose.
§ Stewart of Hillside.

+ Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.

How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!

And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,
Thy power is all-prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,

A cool spectator purely!

So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,

And sober chirps securely.

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

First published in the Scots Magazine for February, 1818. LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes-as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and A- -s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight, I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water ; Then up amang thae lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please; Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a ranklin'; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directedPoor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be d-

-d! what right hae they

To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, near!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herrict,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,