10 I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till Fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

11 But why o' death begin a tale?
Just now we're living sound and hale,
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave care o'er side!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

12 This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy-land,

Where Pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu' light.

13 The magic wand, then, let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field,

Wi' creepin' pace.

14 When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',

And social noise;

And fareweel dear, deluding woman!

The joy of joys!

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

Like schoolboys, at the expected warning,
To joy and play.

16 We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And though the

puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.

17 Some, lucky, find a flowery 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.

18 With steady aim some Fortune chase; Keen Hope does every sinew brace;

Through fair, through foul, they urge the race,

And seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

19 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 and starvin',

They aften groan.

20 Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-
But 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.

21 My pen I here fling to the door,

6

And kneel, Ye Powers!' and warm implore,
Though I should wander Terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Aye rowth o' rhymes.

22 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 and whisky gie to cairds,

Until they sconner.

23 A title-Dempster1 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.

24 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' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail

To say the grace.'

'Dempster:' sce a former note.

25 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.

26 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!

27 Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces In your unletter'd, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces

28 Ye are sae grave, nae doubt your wise; Nae ferly though ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattlin' squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes--

Ye ken the road.

29 Whilst I-but I shall haud me thereWi' you I'll scarce gang ony whereThen, 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 Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropped asleep, than heimagined himself transported to the birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following Address.-B.

1 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.

2 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-turn'd and ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
On sic a day.

3 For me, before a monarch's face,
Even there I winna flatter;

For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor: