Let them in Drury Lane be lesson'd!
And if the wives and dirty brats
E'en thigger1 at your doors and yetts,2
Flaffan wi' duds and gray wi' beas',3
Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,1
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tatter'd gypsies 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 neuk5 beside the ingle,
At my right han' assign'd your seat,
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate,-
Or if you on your station tarrow,7
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].

BEELZEBUB.

A DREAM.

THE friends of the poet tried hard to prevent the publication of this poem without success, judging rightly that it would injure his prospects with the Government. He introduces it as follows:

66 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 birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following ADDRESS.-Burns.

GUID-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,

* Thomas Warton then filled this office. His ode for June 4, 1786, begins as follows:

"When Freedom nursed her native fire

In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre,

Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's brow,
The tinsel gifts of flattery tore,

But paid to guiltless power their willing vow
And to the throne of virtuous kings," &c.

On these verses, the rhymes of the Ayrshire bard must be allowed to form an odd enough commentary-CHAMBERS.

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.

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,

*The poet alludes here to the great diminution of the king's territory by the disastrous issue of the American war.

Adieu, my liege! may Freedom geck3
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 bonnie bairn-time,‡ Heaven 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.

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,

That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattled dice wi Charlie, §
By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known

To mak a noble aiver ;7

* A good fellow's begetting.

the Earl of Chatham.

This is not the only compliment Burns pays to

In allusion to an attempt to induce the lowering of the strength of the

1 Wisely.

So, ye may doucely1 fill a throne,
For a' their clish-ma-claver; 2
Than him at Agincourt* wha shone,
Few better were or braver :

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,†
He was an unco shaver3

For mony a day.

For you, right reverend Osnaburg,‡
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Although a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer⚫
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys o' Peter,
Then, swith! and get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre
Some luckless day.

2 Idle scandal.

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,
And, large upon her quarter

Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonny blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heaven mak you guid as weel as braw,
And gie you lads a-plenty :

But sneer na British boys awa',
For kings are unco scant aye;
And German gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want aye
On ony day.

God bless you a'! consider now
Ye're unco muckle dautit ;5
But ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautit : 6
And I hae seen their coggie fu',7
That yet hae tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautit9
Fu' clean that day.

3 A wicked wag.

4 Haughty.

5 Too much flattered.

6 Salted.

|| Alluding to the newspaper

7 Platter full.

8 Grumbled.

9 They have scraped

out the dish.

And we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,

On every side they're gath'rin',

Some carrying dails,1 some chairs and stools,
And some are busy bleth'rin'2

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the showers,
And screen our country gentry,
There Racer Jess,* and twa-three whores,
Are blinkin' at the entry.

Here sits a raw of tittlin'3 jades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
And there a batch o' wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.

Here, some are thinkin' on their sins,
And some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyled his shins,
Anither sighs and prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,5
Wi' screw'd-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that day.

Oh, happy is that man and blest!

Nae wonder that it pride him!
Whase ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him!
Wi' arm reposed on the chair-back,
He sweetly does compose him;

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,

Unkenn'd that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er

Is silent expectation:

For Moodie + speels the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' damnation.

Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' God present him,

*The following notice of Racer Jess appeared in the newspapers of February 1818:-"Died at Mauchline a few weeks since, Janet Gibson, consigned to immortality by Burns in his 'Holy Fair,' under the turf appellation of 'Racer Jess.' She was the daughter of 'Poosie Nansie,' who figures in 'The Jolly Beggars.' She was remarkable for her pedestrian powers, and sometimes ran long distances for a wager.'

Moodie was the minister of Riccarton, and one of the heroes of "The Twa Herds."