She'll no desert.

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither's heart support ye;
Then, tho'a minister grow dorty,
An' kick your place,
Ye'll snap your gingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.

God bless your Honours, a' your days,
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,

[Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]

[Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline,
where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld
Scotch Drink.--R.B.]

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes,
That haunt St. Jamie's!
Your humble poet sings an' prays,
While Rab his name is.




Postscript

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;