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O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
We frisk away,
To joy and play.
We wander there, we wander here,
Among the leaves;
Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
But care or pain;
Wi' high disdain.
Wi' steady aim, some fortune chase;
And seize the prey:
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan',
They zig-zag on;
They aften groan.
Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-
E'en let her gang!
Let's sing our sang.
My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, ‘Ye Pow'rs! and warm implore, •Tho’ I should wander terra o'er,
In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o'rhymes.
Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
And maids o' honour;
Until they sconner.
• A title, Dempster merits it;
In cent per cent.
And I'm content.
'While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
Wi' cheerfu' face,
To say the grace.'
An anxious ee I never throws
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, Compar'd wi' you—0 fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
Ye never stray,
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
The rattlin squad:
-Ye ken the road.
Whilst I-but I shall haud me there
But quat my sang,
Whare'er I gang.
Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;
On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate'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.
GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty !
May heav'n augment your blisses,
A humble poet wishes !
On sic a day as this is,
Sae fine this day,
I see ye're complimented thrang,
By mony a lord and lady;
That's unco easy said aye;
Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,
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
'Tis very true, my sov'reign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
An' downa be disputed:
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
To rule this mighty nation!
Ye've trusted ministration
Than courts yon day.