For me, thank God, my life's a lease, geese, I' the craft some day. VII. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pit, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck 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 day X. For you young potentate o' W- 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. XI. Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known So, ye may doucely fill a throne, And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,t For monie a day. XII. For you, right rev'rend O Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Altho' a ribbon at your lug Wad been a dress completer: * King Henry V. + Sir John Falstaff. Vide Shakspeare. # XIII. Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, Come full that day. XIV. Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, XV. God bless you a'! consider now, 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, Till he forgets his loves or debts, 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, 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, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o' food! Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: 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 art the life o' public haunts; By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents, for 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! |