ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB.
LONG life, my lord, and health be yours,
Unscaithed by hungered Highland boors;
Lord, grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better
Than, let them ance out owre the water,
Then up amang thae lakes and seas,
They'll mak what rules and laws they please.
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected,
When by such heads and hearts directed.
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
And save the honour o' the nation?
They, and be d- -! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, power, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them, crash them a' to spails!
And rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're oughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lessoned !
And if the wives and dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds and gray wi' beas',
Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tattered gipsies pack,
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
And in my house at hame to greet you.
Wi' common lords
ye shanna mingle;
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate -
Or, if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure, ye 're weel deservin 't;
And till ye come Your humble servant,
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790 [A. D. 1786].
"Thoughts, words, and deeds the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."
UID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses,
On every new birthday, 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 birthday dresses
Sae fine this day.
I see ye're complimented thrang,
By many a lord and lady;
"God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang
That's unco easy said aye;
The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi' rhymes weel-turned and ready,
Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
On sic a day.
For me, before a monarch's face
Even 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 mony waur been o' the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.
'Tis very true, my sovereign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
And downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft and clouted,
And now the third part of the string,
And 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,
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 boost to pasture
I' the craft some day.
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(And Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
And lessen a' your charges;
But G-sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonny barges
And boats this day.
Adieu, my liege! may Freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
And may you 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 and subjection
This great birthday.
Hail Majesty Most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment
A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonny bairn-time Heaven has lent,
Still higher may they heeze ye
In bliss, till fate some day is sent,
Forever 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,
And curse your folly sairly;
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