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And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster;
Till she has scarce a tester;
Nae bargain wearing faster,
l' 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,)
An' lessen a' your charges ;
An' boats this day.
Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
And gie her for dissection!
In loyal, true affection,
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 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;
I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;
An' curse your folly sairly,
By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known
To mak a noble aiver ;
For a' their clishmaclaver:
Few better were or braver;
For monie a day.
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although 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.
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley3, stem an' 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 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,
Your unco muckle dautet;
It may be bitter sautet:
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 VISION.
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
Far i’ the west,
I gaed to rest.
There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
The auld clay biggin; 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.