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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,

Or faith! I fear that with the geese

I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt
When taxes he enlarges

(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges)

That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;

But God's sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonnie barges

An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An' may ye 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 an' subjection

This great Birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gies ye?

Thae bonny bairntime 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.

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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,
An' curse your folly sairly,

That ere ye brak Diana's pales,
Or rattled dice wi' Charlie,

By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known
To mak a noble aiver;

So ye may doucely fill

throne,

For a' their clish-ma-claver;

There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver ;

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

For mony a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho' a ribban' at your lug

Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then swith! an' get a wife to hug,
Or trouth! ye'll stain the mitre
Some luckless day.

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,
An' large upon her quarter

Come full that day.

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Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,

An' gie you lads a-plenty :
But sneer na British boys awa',
For kings are unco scant aye;
An' German gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want aye
Ön ony day.

God bless you a'! Consider now
Ye're unco muckle dautit;

But, e'er the course o' life be through,

It may be bitter sautit:

An' 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

Fu' clean that day.

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ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us squeal!

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Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name;
An', tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles rangin' like a roarin' lion

For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin';

Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or, where auld ruin'd castles gray

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin',
Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin'. thro' the boortrees comin',

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary windy winter night

The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
Wi' you mysel I gat a fright

Ayont the lough;

Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight

Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stoor 'quaick, quaick,'
Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake

On whistlin' wings.

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Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

Thence country wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh the yellow treasure's taen

By witchin' skill;

An' dawtit twal-pint Hawkie's gane

As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brither ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell.

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