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, Than you this day. IV. "Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 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, VI. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Till she has scarce a tester: Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese, I' the craft some day. VII. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 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, Frae care that day. X. For you, young potentate o' Wales, Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 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, 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- - Wad been a dress completer; XIII. Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 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; Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour XV. God bless you a'! consider now, An' I hae seen their coggie fou, SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink until he wink, 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, I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink |