Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/86

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
38
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!While nobles strive to please Ye, Will Ye accept a complimentA 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 YeFrae care that day.
For you, young Potentate o' Wales,I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sailsI'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' CharlieBy night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt's been knownTo 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 shaverFor 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 MitreSome 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 discernYour hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airnAn', 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.
God bless you a'! consider nowYe'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 clautetFu' 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 wayTo kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare 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.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.