The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
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 mony waurb 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 chielsd that winna ding,
An' downa' be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right refts and clouted,h
And now the third part o' the string,
An' less, will gang aboot it
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.
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,
Nac bargain wearin faster,
Or faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges d),
That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;
But, God-sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonie barges
An' boats this day.1
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, wi' due respect,
My fealty an' subjection
Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent,
Still higher may they heezeb 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 cowtd's been known,
To mak a noble aivere;
So, ye may doucely fill the throne,
For a' their clish-ma-claverg:
There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver :
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,2
He was an unco shaverh
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,3
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho' a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty1 dog,
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then swith! an' get a wife to hug,
Or trowth, ye'll stain the mitre
Some luckless day!
Young, royal tarry-breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her-
A glorious galley,1 stem and stern,
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern,
Your hymeneal charter;
Then heave aboard your grapple airn,
An', large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.
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 aye,
An' German gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want aye
On ony day.
God bless you a'! consider now,
Ye're unco muckle dautit;b
But ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautit:"
An' I hae seen their coggie fou,d
That yet hae tarrow'te at it.
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen' they hae clautits
Fu' clean that day.
1 Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor's amour.R. B. This was Princo William Henry, third son of George III, afterwards
King William IV. The reference is not to his connection with Mrs Jordan, the actress.
EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace-
Perhaps related to the race:
Then, when I'm tir'd and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a faced how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou®;
For me sae laigh' I need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say-an' that's nae flatt'rin-
It's just sic poet an' sic patron.
The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelph him!
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only-he's no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me;
I winna lie, come what will o' me),
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.
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