Alas! what bitter toil an' straining

But truce wi' 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.

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,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,

And maids o' honour;

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds,

Until they sconner.

A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,

In cent. per cent.

But gie me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

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 ee 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.

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 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 thereWi' you I'll scarce gang ony where— Then, 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 Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropped asleep than he imagined himself transported to the birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following Address.]

GUID-MORNIN to your Majesty!
May heav'n augment your blisses,
On every new birth-day 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 birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

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.

For me! before a monarch's face,
Ev'n there I winna flatter;

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

VOL. I.

H

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.

"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 of the string,
An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
wisdom want, or fire,

Or say, ye

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.

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.

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 bonnie barges

An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An' may ye rax corruption's neck,
An gie her for dissection!

But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, wi' due respect,
My fealty an' subjection

This great birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gies ye?

Thae bonnie 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' W.

I tell your Highness fairly,

Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, I'm tauld ye're driving rarely;