Classic Poem

Thoughts, words and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;
But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.

On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4th, 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 heaven 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 many a lord an' lady;
" God save the King" 's a cukoo sang
That 's unco easy said ay:
The Poets too, a venal gang,
Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' 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 sovereign 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 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 plaister;
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 Pit,
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-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 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.

X

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.

XI

Yet aft a ragged Cowte 's been known,
To mak a noble Aiver;
So, ye may dousely 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,
He was an unco shaver
For monie a day.

XII

For you, right rev'rend O — — ,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho' a ribban at your lug
Wad been a dress compleater:
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 and 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 upon 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.

XV

God bless you a'! consider now,
Ye're 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.