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III.

For me! before a Monarch's face,

Ev'n tbere I winna flatter;

For neither Pension, Post, nor Place,

Am I your humble debtor:

So, nae reflection on Your Grace,

Your King Chip to bespatter ; There's monie waur been o' the Race,

And aiblins ane been better

Than You this day,

IV.

'Tis very true, my sov'reign King,

My skill may weel be doubted:

But Facts are cheels that winna ding,

An' downa be disputed:
Your Royal Neft beneath Your wing,

Is e'en right reft an' clouted,

VOL. I.

N

And

And now the third part of the string,

An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

V.

Far be't frae me that I aspire

To blame your Legislation,

Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

To rule this mighty nation;

But, faith! I muckle doubt, my Sire,

Ye've trusted Miniftration

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,

Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

VI.

And onw ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken lains to plaister;

Your

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Your fair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:

For me, thank God, my life's a lease,

Nae bargain wearing faster,
Or faith! I fear, that, wi the geefe,
I shortly boost to pasture

I'the craft some day..

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VII,

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's Ge!,

A Name not Envy fpairges) That he intends to pay your debt,

An'lefsen a’ your charges; But God sake! let nae saving-fit Abridge your bonie Barges

An' Boats this day.

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VIII,

ADIEU my Liege! may Freedom geck

Beneath your high protection ;
An' may Ye rax Corruption's neck,

And gie her for diffection!
But iince I'm here, I'll no neglect,

In loyal, true affection,
To pay your Lucer, with due respect,

My fealty an' subjection.

This great Birth-day.

IX.

Hari, Majesty most Excellent!

While Nobles strive to please Ye,
Will ye accept a Compliment

A fimple Bardie gies Ye?
Thae bonie Bairntime, Heav'n has lent,

Still higher may they heeze Ye

In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,

For ever to release Ye

Frae Gare that day.

X.

For you, young Potentate o' W

I tell your Highness fairly,
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling fails,

I'm tauld ye’ré driving rarely ;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

An' curse your folly fairly,
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

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