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

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

I'the craft some day.

VII.
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pit,

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 nae saving-fit
Abridge your bonie barges

An' boats this day.

VIII.
Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck

Beneath your high protection;
An' may ye 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.

IX.
Hail, Majesty most excellent !

While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment

A simple Poet gies ye? Thae bonie bairn-time, 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 d.

X.
For you young potentate o' W-

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 ratti'd dice wi' Charlie,

By night or day.

XI.
Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known

To mak a noble aiver ;
So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

För a' their clish-ma-claver:
There, him* at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver ;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

XII. For you, right rev'rend 0

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug

Wad been a dress completer: As 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

Some luckless day.

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King Henry V.
Sir John Falstaff. Vide Shakspeare.

*

XIII.
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,

Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley,* stem an' stern,

Well rigg'd for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern

Your hymenial character,
Then heave aboard your grapple airn,
An' large upo' her quarter,

Come full that day.

XIV.
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,

An' gie you lads a-plenty:
But sneer na British boys awa',

For kings are unco scant ay;
An' German gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want ay

On onie day.

XV.
God bless you a'! consider now,

Ye're unco muckle dautet;
But, ere the course o' life be thro',

It may be bitter sautet:
An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow'd at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet

Fu' clean that day.

Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour,

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him strong drink until he wink,

That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief an' care;
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other Poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an stories wrack us,

An grate our lug,
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us,

In glass or jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name!
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
An' Aits set up their awnie horn,
An' Peas and Beans at e'en or morn,

Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

ouple scones, the wale o' food!

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Or tumblin in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin;
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;

But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,

Wi' rattin glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear:
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labor sair,

At's weary toil :
Thou even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy silver weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,
His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ?
Ev'n godly meetings o’ 'he saunts,

By thee inspir’d,
When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reeking on a New-Year morning

In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

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