'Tho' I fhould wander Terra o'er, In all her climes, 'Grant me but this, I ask no more, Ay rowth o' rhymes. 'GIE dreeping roafts to countra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; 'Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards, 'And Maids of Honor; 'And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds, 'Until they fconner. 'A TITLE, Dempster merits it; A Garter gie to Willie Pitt; 'Gie Wealth to fome be-ledger'd Cit, In cent. per cent.; But give me real, fterling Wit, 'And I'm content. WHILE Ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, I'll fit down o'er my fcanty meal, "Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' chearfu' face, 'As lang's the Mufes dinna fail To say the grace.' AN anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug or by my nofe; I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows As weel's I may; Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Profe, I rhyme away. O YE douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tidelefs-blooded, calm, and cool, Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your Your hearts are just a ftanding pool, Your lives, a dyke! YE are fae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-fcairum, ram-ftam boys, The rattling fquad: I fee ye upward caft your eyes Ye ken the road WHILST I-but I shall haud me there Wi'y you I'll fcarce gang ony where Then, Then Jamie, I fhall fay nae mair, But quat my fang, Content with You to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREA M. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. [On reading in the public Papers, the Laureate'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.] I. GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty! May heav'n augment your bliffes, On On ev'ry new Birtb-day ye fee, A humble Bardie withes! My Bardship here, at your Levee, On fic a day as this is, Is fure an uncouth fight to fee, Sae fine this day. II. I fee ye're complimented thrang, By many a lord an' lady; 'God fave the King!''s a cuckoo fang That's unco easy said ay: The Poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes wee'l turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring feady, On fic a day. |