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And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Till she has scarce a tester;
Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I' the craft some day.
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
(An Will's a true guid fallow's get,
An' boats this day.
Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
In loyal, true affection,
To pay your Queen, with due respect,
My fealty an' subjection
This great birth-day.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonnie 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' 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 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 John2,
He was an unco shaver
For monie a day.
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,
Some luckless day.
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Then heave aboard your grapple airn,
An', large upo' her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',
Ye royal lasses dainty,
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,
An' gie 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,
An' I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow't at it;
Fu' clean that day.
1 King Henry V.
2 Sir John Falstaff; vide Shakspeare.
3 Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour.
THE sun had clos'd the winter day,
To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.
The thresher's weary flingin-tree
And whan the day had clos'd his ee,
Far i' the west,
Ben I' the spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.
There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
An' heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin.
All in this mottie, misty clime,
An' done nae-thing,
But stringin blethers up in rhyme,
For fools to sing.