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
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows

As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you-O 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 arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

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-
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

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!
May Heav'n augment your blisses,
On every new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes!

My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birth-day dresses

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,
Ev'n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, 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.

'Tis very true, my sovereign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are cheels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,

And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

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 ministration

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,
Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

VOL. I.

G

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaister;
Your sair 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 geese,
I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,

(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges)
That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;
But, G-d-sake! let na saving-fit
Abridge your bonie barges

An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An' may he rax corruption's neck,
And gie 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 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,
Still higher may they heeze ye

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 rattl'd dice wi' Charlie,

By night or day.

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

So ye may doucely fill a throne,

For a' their clishmaclaver:

There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John 2,
He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

For you, right rev'iend Osnabrug,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,

Altho' a' ribban at your lug

As

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

1 King Henry V.

Some luckless day.

2 Sir John Falstaff; vide Shakspeare.