O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho' the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry 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. With steady aim some fortune chase; Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And seize the prey: Then canie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And 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 an' starvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an' strainin- E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, 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, Ay rowth o' rhymes. 'Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 'Till icicles hing frae their beards; 'Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honor! 'And yill an' whisky gie to cairds, Until they sconner. 'A title, A title, Dempster merits it; 'A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, While ye are pleas'd 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.' An anxious e'e I never throws Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! Nae Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, In your unletter'd nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly tho' ye do despise The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin squad: I see you upward cast your eyes— -Ye ken the road. Whilst I-but I shall haud me there Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where- But quat my sang, Content wi' You to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. 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-MORNIN to your Majesty! My |