50 бо And now ye've gien auld Britain peace Your sair taxation does her fleece Till she has scarce a tester. For me, thank God! my life's a lease, Or faith! I fear that with the geese I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, That he intends to pay your debt, But God's sake! let nae saving fit An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, In loyal true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, 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, In bliss, till fate some day is sent For ever to release ye Frae care that day. 70 30 For you, young Potentate o' Wales, Down pleasure's stream wi' swelling sails But some day ye may gnaw your nails, That ere ye brak Diana's pales, By night or day. Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known So ye may doucely fill throne, For a' their clish-ma-claver; There, him at Agincourt wha shone, And yet, wi' funny queer Sir John, For mony a day. For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Wad been a dress completer: Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn Then heave aboard your grapple airn, Come full that day. 90 100 ΠΙΟ Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, An' gie you lads a-plenty : God bless you a'! Consider now 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, Fu' clean that day. I 20 130 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O THOU! whatever title suit thee, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, Ev'n to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeal! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; An' faith thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles rangin' like a roarin' lion For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin', Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', I've heard my reverend grannie say, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, When twilight did my grannie summon Or, rustlin'. thro' the boortrees comin', Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary windy winter night The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Ayont the lough; Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake On whistlin' wings. 40 30 20 Let warlocks grim an' wither'd hags And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Thence country wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witchin' skill; An' dawtit twal-pint Hawkie's gane As yell's the bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 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 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, When masons' mystic word an' grip The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell. 50 60 70 So |