O life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, To join and play. 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 canie, 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 with peevish, poor complaining! Is fortune's fickle Luna waning? E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, " 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, Aye 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 yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. "A title, Dembster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent. per cent. But give 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, Wi' chearfu' face, As lang's the muses dinna fail To say the grace." An anxious e'e I never throws Behint my lug, or hymy nose; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Your hearts are just a standing pool, 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-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 ony whereThen, 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 dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] I. Guid-mornin to your majesty ! May heaven augment your blisses, A humble poet wishes! My bardship here, at your levee, Sae fine this day, II. I see ye're complimented thrang, 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 sie a day. III. For me! before a monarch's face, There's monie waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. IV. 'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, My skill may weel be doubted: Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Than did ae day. V. Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. VI. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 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, When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, An' boats this day. VIII. Adieu, my liege! may freedom geck In loyal, true affection, To pay your queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. |