And in the Twilight of his Fancy's Theme,
Scar'd from his Sins, repented in a Fright,
Had he view'd Scotland had turn'd Proselyte.
A Land where one may pray with curst Intent;
Oh, may they never suffer Banishment!
Had _Cain_ been _Scot_, God would have chant'd his Doom,
Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.
Like _Jews_ they spread, and as Infection fly,
As if the Devil had Ubiquity.
Hence 'tis they live as Rovers, and defie
This or that Place, Rags of Geography.
They're Citizens o' th' World, they're all in all;
_Scotland's_ a Nation Epidemical.
And yet they ramble not to learn the Mode,
How to be drest, or how to lisp abroad;
To return knowing in the Spanish Shrug,
Or which of the _Dutch_ States a double Jug
Resembles most in Belly or in Beard;
The Card by which the Mariners are Steer'd.
No! The Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat;
Their Ostrich Stomachs make their Swords their Meat.
Nature with _Scots_ as Tooth-drawers has dealt,
Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt.
Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tame
The Stubborn _Scot_: A Prince that would reclaim
Rebels by yielding does like him. or worse,
Who saddled his own Back to shame his Horse.
Was it for this you left your leaner Soil,
Thus to lard _Israel_ with _Egypt's_ Spoil?
Lord! what a Goodly Thing is want of Shirts!