"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 pleased to keep me hale I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerful face, As lang's the muses dinna fail To say the grace." An anxious e'e I never throws O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compared wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! Hae 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 though ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin squad: I see you upward cast your eyes— -Ye ken the road. Whilst I-but I shall haud me thereWi' you I'll scarce gang onywhere— Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. 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 dropped asleep, than he imagined himself to the birthday le vee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following address.] I. GUID-MORNING to your majesty ! May heaven augment your blisses, On every new birth-day ye see, An humble poet wishes! My bardship here, at your levee, II. I see ye're complimented thrang, By monie 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 turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. III. For me, before a monarch's face, IV. 'Tis very true, my sovereign king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 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 their station Than courts yon day. VI. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Till she has scarce a tester; I' the craft some day. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, |