To the Right Honorable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honorable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders who, as the Society were informed by Mr M‘Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they are, by emigrating from the lands of Mr Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing – Liberty –
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 Butchers like a knife!
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highlan’ hounds in sight!
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes an’ seas,
They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke, or a Frankline,
May set their Highlan’ 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 directed.
Poor, dunghill sons of dirt an’ mire,
May to Patrician rights aspire;
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch an’ premier owre the pack vile!
An’ whare will ye get Howes an’ Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An’ save the honor o’ the nation?
They, an’ be damned! what right hae they
To meat or sleep or light o’ day,
Far less to riches, pow’r or freedom,
But what your lordships please to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengary, hear!
Your hand’s owre light on them, I fear:
Your factors, greives, trustees and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies:
They lay aside a’ tender mercies,
An’ tirl the hallions to the birsies;
Yet while they’re only poin’d and herriet,
They’ll keep their stubborn Highlan spirit.
But smash them! crush them a’ to spails!
And 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 oughtlins fausont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lesson’d!
An’ if the wives, an’ dirty brats,
Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts,
Flaffan wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beese,
Frightan awa your deucks an’ geese,
Get out a horsewhip, or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tatter’d gipseys 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 newk, beside the ingle
At my right hand, assign’d your seat
’Tween Herod’s hip, an’
Polycrate, Or (if you on your station tarrow)
Between Almagro and Pizarro;
A seat, I’m sure ye’re weel deservin’t;
An’ till ye come – your humble servant,
Beelzebub.
Hell,
1st June, Anno Mundi 5790