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But Homer-like, the glowran byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS.

For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife eneugh for a' that.

II.

I never drank the Muses' stank,
Castalia's burn, and a' that;

But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that.

For a' that, &c.

III.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,

Their humble slave, and a' that;

But lordly will I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.

IV.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love, and a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

V.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft,
They've taen me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex!
I like the jads for a' that.

The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair.

"A countra laird had taen the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts;
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An' pays him well:

The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets,
Was laird himsel'.

"A bonie lass, ye kenn'd her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame,
She trusts hersel', to hide her shame,
In Hornbook's care:

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;
Thus he goes on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,
An's weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,
Wi' his d-mn'd dirt.

"But hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited sot

As dead's a herrin;

Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!"

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell,

Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais'd us baith;

I took the way that pleas'd mysel',

And sae did Death.

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 dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following address.]

I.

GUID morning to your Majesty!

May heav'n 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.

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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 ay;

The Poets, too, a venal gang

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

III.

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.

IV.

"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 o' 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'd 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,)
That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;
But, G-d's sake! let nae saving-fit
Abridge your bonie barges

An' boats this day.

VIII.

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 birth-day

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