My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, Ye Pow'rs! and warm implore, 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 brae claes to fine Life-guards,

And Maids of honour,

And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds,

• Until the sconner.

A Title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie-Pit;

Gie Wealth to fome be-leger'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-brofe, or muflin-kail,

• Wichearfu' face,

As lang's the mufes dinna fail

To fay the grace."

An' anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nofe;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows

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 hearts are just a ftanding pool,
Your lives a dyke!

Nae hair brain'd, fentimental traces In your unletter'd, nameless faces!

In ariofo thrills and graces

Ye never ftray,

But graviffimo, folemn bafes

Ye hum away.

Ye are fae grave, nae doubt ye're wife;

Nae ferly tho' ye do defpife

The hairum-fcairum, ram ftam boys,

I fee ye upward caft your eyes

The rattling fquad:

Ye-ken the road

Whilft T-but I fhall haud me therc WP' you I'll fearce gang ony whereThen Jamie, I fhall fay nae mair,

But quat my fang,

Content with a to mak a pair,

Where'er I gang.

A

DREAM.

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;` But furely DREAMS were ne'er indicted Treafon.

(On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Odeg with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the Author was no fooner dropt afleep, than he imagined himself tranfported to the Birth-day Levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.}}

GUID MORNIN to your Majefly!

May Heaven augment your bliffes,
On every new Birth-day ye fee,

An humble Bardie wishes!
My Bardfhip here at your Levee,
On fic a day as this is,
Is fure an uncouth fight to fee,
Amang the Birth day dreffes

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 eafy faida

l'ay;

The Poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, Wad gar you true ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring fteady,

On fic a day.

III.

For me! before a monarch's face,

Ev'n there I winna flatter;

For neither Penfion, Poft, nor Place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on Your Grace,
Your Kingship to bespatter;

There's monie waur been o❞ the Race

And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day..

IV.

Tis very true, my fovereign King,

may

My skill
weel be doubted:
But Facts are Chiels that winna ding,

An' downa be difputed: did
Your royal Neft, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft and clouted,
And now the third part of the ftring

An' lefs, will gang about it,

Than did ae day.