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 "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 poet 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 cuckoo sang
        That's unco easy said ay;
    The poets, too, a venal gang,
        Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,
    Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,
        But ay 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:
    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,
    Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
        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 plaister;
    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-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,
        And gie her for dissection!
    But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,
        In loyal, true affection,
    To pay your Queen, with 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 gi'es 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' 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 e'er ye brak Diana's pales,
        Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie,
        By night or day.

    Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known
        To mak a noble aiver;
    So, ye may doucely fill 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 ribbon 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,[1] stem an' 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, bonnie 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.

    God bless you a'! consider now,
        Ye're unco muckle dautet;
    But ere the course o' life be thro',
        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.