dreaming fancy, made the following Address:

Guid-mornin to your Majesty!

May heaven augment your blisses,

On ev’ry 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 thae birthday dresses

Sae fine this day.

I see ye’re complimented thrang,

By monie a lord an 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 an ready,

Wad gar you trow ye ne’er do wrang,

But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

For me! before a Monarch’s face,

Ev’n 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.

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 reft and clouted,

And now the third part o 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’d their station,

Than courts yon day.

And now ye’ve glen 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 wearin 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 fallows get,

A name not envy spairges)

That he intends to pay your debt,

An lessen a’ your charges;

But, God sake! let nae saving fit

Abridge your bonie 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, wi 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 Bardie gies ye?

Thae bonie 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.

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 rattl’d dice wi Charlie

By night or day.