See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
Wi' creepin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, Then fareweel vacant careless roamin;

An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,

An' social noise;

An' farcweel dear, deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,

We

the brier,

eye the rose upon 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' strainingBut 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,

'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, Dempster 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' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the muses dinna fail

• To say the grace.'

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose:
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows,
As weel's I may ;

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!

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 there-

where

Wi' I'll scarce gang ony
you
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you, to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang,

A DREA M.

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 birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.]

I.

GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty!

May Heav'n augment your blisses,
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet 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

Sae fine this day.

II.

I see ye're complimented thrang,

By mony a lord and lady,

'God save the king!''s a cuckoo sang

That's unco easy said ay;

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,