An anxious e'e I never throws

Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose,

I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,

Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces In your unletter'd, nameless faces!

In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

Ye hum away.

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum ram-stam boys,

The rattlin squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes—

-Ye ken the road.

Whilst I-but I shall haud me there

Wi'

you I'll scarce gang ony whereThen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' You to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

A

DREAM.

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with

"But surely DREAMS were ne'er indicted TREASON."

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4. 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address].

I.

GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty,

May heav'n augment your blisses,

On ev'ry new Birth-day ye see,

A humble Poet wishes!

My Bardship here, at your Levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae Birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

II.

I see ye're complimented thrang,
By mony a lord and lady ;

God save the King!' 's a cuckoo sang
That's unco easy said ay;

The Poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar you 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 cheels 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 of 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.