Classic Poem

I
Guid-mornin to yourMAJESTY!
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. . . .
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,
Of 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 . . .
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.
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'l 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.