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"A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

In cent. per cent.

But gie me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

"While ye are pleased to keep me hale I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,

Wi' cheerful 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, Compared wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke!

Hae 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 though ye do despise The hairum-scarum, 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 onywhere— Then, 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 dropped asleep, than he imagined himself to the birthday le vee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following address.]

I.

GUID-MORNING to your majesty !

May heaven augment your blisses, On every new birth-day ye see, An 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 monie 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 you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day.

III.

For me, before a monarch's face,
E'en there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor :
So, nae reflection on your grace,
Your kingship to bespatter;
There's monie waur been o' the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.

IV.

'Tis very true, my sovereign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right left an' clouted,
And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it
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 rule this mighty nation! But, faith, I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps wha in a barn or byre Wad better fill their station Than courts yon day.

VI.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster,
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 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,
A name not envy spairges,)

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