That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;
But, God-sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonnie barges

An boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may Freedom geck 1
Beneath your high protection;
An' may ye rax? Corruption's neck,
And gi'e her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,

In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, with due respect,
My fealty an' subjection

This great birthday.

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gi'es ye?

Thae bonnie bairntime, Heaven has lent,

Still higher may they heeze ye3

In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,

For ever to release ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o' Wales,

I tell your highness fairly,

Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,

I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely;

But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

An' curse your folly sairly,

That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie,+

By night or day.

1 Exult.

2 Stretch.

3 Raise.

4 C. J. Fox

6

son.

A DREAM.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's1 been known
To mak' a noble aiver;?

So ye may doucely fill a throne,
For a' their clishmaclaver:

There's him3 at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver;

And yet wi' funny, queer Sir John,1
He was an unco shaver 5

For mony a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburgh 6
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Although a ribbon at your lug

Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then, swith 18 an' get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre

Some luckless day.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',
Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heaven mak' you guid as weel as braw,

An' gi'e you lads a-plenty!

But sneer nae British boys awa',
For kings are unco scant aye;
An' German gentles are but sma',
They 're better just than want aye,
On onie day.

God bless you a'! consider now,
Ye're unco muckle dautet ;9

But, ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautet;

4 Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspere.

3 King Henry V.

5 Wag

263

Osnaburgh gave the title of Bishop to George the Third's second

7 Proud.

8 Get off, i.e."make haste."

9 Caressed.

An' I ha'e seen their coggie' fou,
That yet ha'e tarrow't at it:
But, or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen3 they ha'e clautet

Fu' clean that day.

DESPONDENCY.

AN ODE.

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad returning night,

And joyless morn the same;

1 Dish.

2 Refused.

Platter.

4 Scraped.

DESPONDENCY.

You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain ;
I, listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.

How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.

Then I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,

To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times,

205

266

VERSES TO AN OLD SWEETHEART.

To feel the follies or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish
The losses the crosses,

That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!

VERSES TO AN OLD SWEETHEART AFTER HER MARRIAGE.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF HIS POEMS PRESENTED TO THE LADY.

ONCE fondly loved, and still remembered dear!
Sweet early object of my youthful vows!
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,-
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more—
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,

Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic's roar,