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Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

III.

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 monie waur been o' the race
And aiblins ane been better,

Than you this day.

IV.

"Tis very true, my sov'reign king,
My skill may weel be doubted;
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
And now the third part o' the string,
An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

V.

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.

VI.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster;
Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:
For me, thank God! my life's a lease,
Nae bargain wearing faster,

Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture,

I' the craft some day.

VII.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
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's 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 day.

X.

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.

XI.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known

To mak a noble aiver;

So ye may doucely fill a throne,

For a' their clish-ma-claver:

There him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,t

He was an unco shaver,

For monie a day.

King Henry V

† Sir John Falstaff. Vide Shakspeare.

XII.

For you, right rev'rend O- -
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.

XIII.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley,* 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.

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.

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

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.

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,

And 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' wimpling worms thou jink

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