And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. A title, Dempster merits it: A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent. per cent. But give me real sterling wit, And I'm content. While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale," I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' chearfu' face, As lang's the Muses dinna fail To say the grace.' An anxious e'e I never throws As weel's I may; O ye douce folk, that live by rule, How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces. Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; The hairum-scairum ram-stam boys, The rattlin squad: I see you upward cast your eyes -Ye ken the road. D -- Whilst I-but I shall haud me there- But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. (On reading in the public papers the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep than he imagined himself transported to the birth day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty! May Heav'n augment your blisses, My bardship here, at your levee, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Sae fine this day. I see ye're complimented thrang, By mony a lord and lady; God save the king!' 's a cuckoo sang, That's unco easy said ay; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, On sic a day. For me before a monarch's face, For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your grace, Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, And now the third part of the string, Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Than courts yon day. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Your sair taxation does her fleece, For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I' the craft some day. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege! may Freedom geck To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. Hail, Majesty most excellent! While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment A simple poet gies ye? Thae bonnie bairntime Heav'n has lent, In bliss, till fate some day is sent Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, I tell your Highness fairly, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been knowu So ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clishmaclever : There, him at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; And yet, wi' funny queer Sir John,† For monie a day. Nor you, right rev'rend Osnabrug, + King Henry V. § Sir John Falstaff; vide Shakspeare. As ye disown yon paughty dog Some luckless day. Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as well as braw, God bless you a'! consider now, It may be bitter sautet: An' I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet Fu' clean that day, + Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. |