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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please Ye,
Will Ye accept a compliment
A simple Bardie gies Ye?
Thae bonny 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.
While nobles strive to please Ye,
Will Ye accept a compliment
A simple Bardie gies Ye?
Thae bonny 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 ere ye brak Diana's pales,
Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie
By night or day.
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 ere ye brak Diana's pales,
Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie
By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt's been known
To mak a noble aiver;
Sae, ye may doucely till a Throne,
For a' their clish-ma-claver:
There, Him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver
For monie a day.
To mak a noble aiver;
Sae, ye may doucely till a Throne,
For a' their clish-ma-claver:
There, Him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver
For monie a day.
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho' a ribban at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the Keys of Peter,
Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the Mitre
Some luckless day.
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho' a ribban at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the Keys of Peter,
Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the Mitre
Some luckless day.
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley, stem and stern,
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern
Your hymeneal charter,
Then heave aboard your grapple airn
An', large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley, stem and stern,
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern
Your hymeneal charter,
Then heave aboard your grapple airn
An', large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a',
Ye royal Lasses dainty,
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,
An' gie you lads a-plenty:
But sneer na British boys awa',
For Kings are unco scant ay;
An' German Gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want ay
On onie day.
Ye royal Lasses dainty,
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,
An' gie you lads a-plenty:
But sneer na British boys awa',
For Kings are unco scant ay;
An' German Gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want ay
On onie day.
God bless you a'! consider now
Ye're unco muckle dautet;
But, ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautet:
An' I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet
Fu' clean that day.
Ye're unco muckle dautet;
But, ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautet:
An' I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet
Fu' clean that day.
THE VISION.
DUAN FIRST.
The sun had clos'd the winter day,
The Curlers quat their roarin play,
An' hunger'd Maukin taen her way
To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.
The Curlers quat their roarin play,
An' hunger'd Maukin taen her way
To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.
The thresher's weary flinging-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west,
Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west,
Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.
