We wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And tho' the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ;
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey :

Then cannie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin';
To right or left, eternal swervin',

They zig-zag on;

Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin',

They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining!
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

My pen

Let's sing our sang.

I here fling to the door,

And kneel,

66

Ye Pow'rs!" and warm implore,

"Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Ay rowth' o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;

Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards,

And Maids of Honour;

And yill3 and whisky gie to Cairds,*

Until they sconner.5

1 Plenty.

2 Dropping,

3 Ale. 4 Tinkers.

5 Loathe.

"A Title, Dempster' merits it;
A Garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie Wealth to some be-ledger'd Cit,
In cent per cent;

But gie me real, sterling Wit,

And I'm content.

"While Ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,2

Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail

To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk3 beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose,
I rhyme away.

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,

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly* tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam5 boys,

The rattling 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 where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content with You to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

1 An active Member of Parliament, who died in 1818.

2 Broth made of water, shelled barley, and greens. An expression of contempt. 5 Thoughtless.

3 Stoop. 6 Quit.

A DREAM.

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 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."-R. B.

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.

I see ye're complimented thrang,
By many a lord an' 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 garl you trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

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 aiblins2 ane been better

'Tis

Than You this day.

very true my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be doubted:

But Facts are cheels3 that winna ding,1
An' downa" be disputed:

Your Royal nest, beneath Your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,1
And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

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,2
Wad better filled their station

Than courts yon day.

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 boost3 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,)6
That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;
But, God's sake! let nae saving-
Abridge your bonnie barges

g-fit

An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An' may Ye raxs 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.

1 Torn and patched; the allusion is to the separation of America. 2 Cow stable. 3 Must needs. Field. 5 Child. 6 Bemires. 7 Exult.

E

8 Stretch.

1 Raise.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please Ye,
Will Ye accept a compliment
A simple Poet gies Ye?

Thae bonny bairntime, Heav'n has lent,
Still higher may they heeze1 Ye

In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,
For ever to release Ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young Potentate o' Wales,
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 cowte's been known
To mak a noble aiver ;*

4

Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne,

For a' their clish-ma-claver :5
There, Him at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,7
He was an unco shavers

For monie a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,9
Nane sets the lawn-sleeves sweeter,

Altho' a ribbon at your lug

Wad been a dress completer:

As ye disown yon paughty10 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,12 I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley,13 stem and stern,
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;

2 Mr. Fox.

3 Colt.

4 Cart-horse.

5 Idle talk.

King Henry V.-R. B. 7 Sir John Falstaff: vide Shakspeare.-R. B. * Wag. Osnaburg gave the title of Bishop to the second son of George III. 11 Get away.

10 Proud.

12 The Royal "Breeks" was the Duke of Clarence. - Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor's amour.-R. B.