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.]
Gude-Morning to your Majesty! May Heav'n augment your blisses, On every new Birth-day ye see, A humble Bardie wishes: My Bardship here, at your Levee, On sic a day as this is, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, Amang the Birth-day dresses She fine this day.
I see your complimenting thrang By mony 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 me trow ye ne'er did wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day.
For me, before a Monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither Pension, Post, nor Place, Am I your humble debtor; Sae nae reflection on your Grace, Your Knightship to bespatter, There's mony waur been o' the Race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day.
'Tis very true, my sov'reign 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 —ad better fill 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 at tester. For me, thank God! my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith, I fear, that wi' the geese I shortly boot to pasture I the craft some day.
I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, When taxes he enlarges. (And Will's a true gude fallow's gett, A name not envy spairges), That he intends to pay your debt, And lessen a' your charges: But, G—d-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonny Barges And Boats this day.
Adieu, my Liegelǃ—my freedom geck Beneath your high protection; And may you rax corruption's neck, And gie her for dissection. But sin I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty and subjection This great Birth-day.
Hail, Majesty most excellent! While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye accept a compliment A simple Bardie gies ye? Thae bonny bairn-time Heav'n 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 of ———, I tell Your Higliness 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 rattl'd dice wi' Charlie By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged Cowte's been known To make a noble Aiver; Sae ye may doucely fill a throne, For a' their clishmaclaver: There him[1] at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were, or braver, And yet wi' funny, queer Sir John[2], He was an unco shaver For monie a day.
For you, right rev'rend O———g, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although a ribband at your lug Wad be a dress completer: As you disown you paughty dog, That bears the keys o' Peter, Then swith! and get a wife to hug, Or, troth, ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day.
Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, Ye'vs lately come athwart her, A glorious galley[3], 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 upo' her quarter Come full that day.
And, lastly, bonny blossoms a', Ye royal Lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you gude as weel as braw, And gie you lads a-plenty: But sneer na British boys awa', For kings are unco scant aye, Tho' 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; But ere the course of life be through, It may be better sautit: And I hae seen their coggie fou, That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautit Fa' clean that day.
Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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