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 Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagin'd himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] I. GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty! A humble poet wishes! My My bardship here, at your levee, Sae fine this day. II. I see ye're complimented thrang, By mony a lord and 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 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, But facts are cheels that winna ding, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Than did ae day. V. Far be't frae me that I aspire 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 Than courts yon day. VI. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester; For For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. VII. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck And gie her for dissection! In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. IX. Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! Thae bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, Frae care that day. X. For you, young potentate o' W. I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 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 doucely fill a throne, For a' their clish-ma-claver: There, |