Address of Beelzebub – [Address of Beelzebub]

LONG LIFE, My Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith’d by hunger'd HIGHLAN BOORS!
Lord grant, nae duddie, desp’rate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, and 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 among thae lakes and 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 an’ 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 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 damned! what right hae they
To Meat, orSsleep, or light o' day,
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship’s PLEASE TO GIE THEM?

But, hear me, my lord! Glengary, hear!
Your HAND 'S OWRE LIGHT ON THEM, I fear:
Your FACTORS, GRIEVES, TRUSTEES, an’ BAILIES,
I canna say but they do gailies;
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,
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 fausont,
Let them in DRURY LANE be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats,
Come thiggan at your doors an' yets,
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,
An' gar the tatter'd gypseys 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
At my right hand, assign’d your seat
'Tween HEROD'S hip an' POLYCRATE;
Or, if ye on your station tarrow,
Between ALMAGRO and PIZARRO;
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deserving 't;
An' till ye come--------your humble servant
Beelzebub.
Hell 1st June Anno Mundi 5790.