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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.


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 bonnie barges

An' boats this day.


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.


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,

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 coute'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,
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;
But, ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautet:

An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet

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,
The curlers quat their roaring play,
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way

To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;

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,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin;

An' heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus'd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,

An' done nae-thing,

But stringin blethers up in rhyme,

For fools to sing.

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