Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,

And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;

But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It maks an unco leeway.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown
Debauchery and drinking:

O would they stay to calculate

Th' eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,

Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination-

But, let me whisper i' your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;

Though they may gang a kennin wrang

To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving why they do it! And just as lamely can ye mark How far, perhaps, they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis he alone
Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord-its various tone,
Each spring-its various bias:
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

A DREAM.

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses,
On every new birthday 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 birthday dresses,

Sae fine this day.

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 aye;

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turned and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady,

On sic a day.

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 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,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
And now the third part of the string,
An' 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

Wad better fill their station

Than courts yon day.

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.

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 our debt,

An' lessen a' your charges;
But, God-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 birthday.

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gies ye?

Thae bonnie bairn-time Heaven 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 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 e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie,

By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known

To mak a noble aiver;

So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

For a' their clishmaclaver:
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 Osnaburgh
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Although a ribbon 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 an' stern,
Well rigged for Venus' barter;