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; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 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. 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 transport ed to the birth-day levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty! 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, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day. For me! before a monarch's face, Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sovereign 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 To rule this mighty nation! Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Than courts yon day. VOL. I. G And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 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, (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 bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, In bliss, till fate some day is sent, For ever to release ye Frae care that day. For you, young potentate o' Wales, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, But some day ye may gnaw your nails, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known So ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clishmaclaver: There, him at Agincourt wha shone, And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John 2, For monie a day. For you, right rev'iend Osnabrug, Altho' a' ribban at your lug As Wad been a dress completer: 1 King Henry V. Some luckless day. 2 Sir John Falstaff; vide Shakspeare. |