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• Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,

. In all her climes,

· Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Ay rowth o rhymes.

GIE dreeping roasts 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 sconner.

.A TITLE, Dumpster merits it;

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"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 fit 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

Behint my lug or by my nose;
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, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool,

Compar'd wi' you- fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike!


Your hearts are just a standing pool,

Your lives, a dyke!

NAE hair-brain'd, sentimental traces,

In your unletter'd, nameless faces !

In ariiso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn baffes

Ye hum away.

Ye are fae grave, nae doubt ye're wise ;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,

The rattling squad:
I see ye upward cast your eyes

Ye ken the road

Whilst I-- but I shall haud me there

Wi’ you I'll scarce gang ony where


Then Jamie, I shall say rae mair,

But quat iny sang, Content with You to mak a pair,

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Thoughts, words, and deeds, tbe 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, ihan 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 bliffes,


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 see,
Amang the Birth-day dresses

Sae fine this day.


I see ye're complimented thrang,

By many a lord an' lady;

•God save the King!' 's a cuckoo sang

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 steady,

On fic a day.

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