Come, keen Iambicks, with your Badgers' Feet,
And Badger-like bite till your Teeth do meet;
Help ye, Tart Satyrists, to imp my Rage,
With all the Scorpions that should whip this Age.
But that there's Charm in Verse, I would not quote
The Name of Scot without an Antidote,
Unless my Head were red, that I might brew
Invention there that might be Poison too.
Were I a drowzy Judge, whose dismal Note
Disgorges Halters, as a Juggler's Throat
Does Ribbons; could I in Sir Empyrick's Tone
Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction;
Or roar like Marshal, that Geneva Bull,
Hell and Damnation a Pulpit full:
Yet to express a Scot, to play that Prize,
Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice.
Before a Scot can properly be curst,
I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first.
Scots are like Witches; do but whet your Pen,
Scratch till the Blood comes, they'll not hurt you then.

Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to take
The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake,
I'll bait my Scot so, yet not cheat your Eyes;
A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise.
No more let Ireland brag her harmless Nation
Fosters no Venom since that Scots' Plantation;
Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain,
Since they came in England has Wolves again.
Nature her self does Scotch-men Beasts confess,
Making their Country such a Wilderness;
A Land that brings in Question and Suspence
God's Omnipresence but that Charles came thence,
But that Montrose and Crawford's Royal Band
Aton'd their Sin, and Christened half the Land.
Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots,
There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots,
As in a Picture where the Squinting Paint
Shews Fiend on this Side and on that Side Saint;
He that Saw Hell in's Melancholy Dream,
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!
How a Scotch Stomach and no Meat converts!
They wanted Food and Raiment, so they took
Religion for their Seamstress and their Cook.
Unmask them well; their Honours and Estate,
As well as Conscience, are Sophisticate.
Shrive but their Titles, and their Money poise;
A Laird and Twenty Pence,[27] pronounc'd with Noise,
When constru'd, but for a plain Yeoman go,
And a good sober Two-pence, and well so.
Hence then,'you Proud Imposters, get you gone,
You Picts in Gentry and Devotion,
You Scandal to the Stock of Verse, a Race
Able to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace.
Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce
The Ostracism, and sham'd it out of Use.
The Indian that Heaven did forswear
Because he heard some Spaniards were there.
Had he but known what Scots in Hell had been,
He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between.
My Muse has done. A voider for the Nonce;
I wrong the Devil should I pick the Bones.
That Dish is his, for when the Scots decease,
Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles.
A Scot, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose,
Drops into Stix, and turns a Soland Goose. [28]

[Footnote 27: Ten pence Scots was a penny English.]

[Footnote 28: Compare with this the first of the two political squibs published in the Aungervyle Reprints Series, 2.]

THE MARSEILLAISE.

[Footnote: Written and composed by Roger de Lisle. This translation has been attributed to Lord Auckland.]

Ye sons of France, awake to glory;
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears, and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding?
To arms, to arms, ye brave,
Th'avenging sword unsheath;
March on, march on, all hearts resolv'd
On victory or death.

Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rolling
Which treach'rous kings, confederate, raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And, lo! our fields and cities blaze;
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands embruing?
To arms, ye brave, etc.

With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile insatiate despots dare,
Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,
To mete and vend the light and air.
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods, would bid their slaves adore;
But man is man, and who is more?
Then shall they longer lash and goad us?
To arms, ye brave, etc.

O Liberty! can man resign thee,
Once having felt thy gen'rous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts, and bars confine thee,
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
To arms, ye brave, etc.