Then farewel hopes of Laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth, I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on with 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!

But why, o' Death, begin a tale?
Just now we're living sound an' hale;
Then top and maintop croud the sail,
Heave Care o'er-side!

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,

Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;

An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin,

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

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

And tho' the

Among the leaves; 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 hap❜ly, 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 sieze the prey:

Then canie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

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' strainingBut 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.

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,

'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, DEMPSTER merits it; 'A Garter gie to WILLIE PIT; 'Gie Wealth to some be-ledger'd Cit, In cent per cent;

'But give 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' chearfu' face,

'As lang's the Muses dinna fail

To say the grace.'

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.

O ye, douse 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 rambling † squad:

I see ye upward cast your eyes

-Ye ken the road

Whilst I-but I shall haud me there

Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-
Then Jamie, I shall sae nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content with YOU to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

*It will be found that this line is afterwards quoted by the poet himself in

"The Vision."

↑ Altered, in 1787, to "rattling."

A DREAM.

Thoughts, words and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;
But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.

[The date of this clever political pasquinade is told in its prose introduction -in itself, an excellent satire on the "Birth-Day Odes" of poets-laureate― sleepy productions all of them! Some of the author's newly acquired patrons, in the following year, tried in vain to dissuade him from reproducing this poem in the Edinburgh edition, lest it should damage his prospects of government appointment. On 30th April, 1787, he wrote thus to Mrs. Dunlop, "My Dream has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure; but I set as little by princes, lords, clergy and critics, as all these respective gentry do by my bardship."]

ON READING, IN THE PUBLIC PAPERS, THE LAUREATE'S ODE, WITH THE OTHER PARADE OF JUNE 4th, 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 heaven augment your blisses,
On ev'ry new Birth-day ye see,

A humble Bardie* wishes!
My Bardship here, at your Levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae Birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang,
By many a lord an' lady;

"God save the King "'s a cukoo sang

That's unco easy said ay:

The Poets too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd an' ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,
But ay unerring steady,

On sic a day.

* Altered, in 1794, to "Poet."