[Prefixed to this Dream, as originally published, were these words-"On reading in the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade on June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birthday levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address." The Poet Laureate at this time was Thomas Warton. Mrs. Dunlop having taken exception to the pasquinade as indiscreet, Burns wrote her, on the 30th April, 1787-"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."] "Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason?" GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty! A humble poet wishes! Sae fine this day. I see ye 're complimented thrang, "God save the King!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turned 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; Your kingship to bespatter; 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, Than did ae day. Far be 't frae me that I aspire To rule this mighty nation! To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre Than courts yon day. And now ye 've gi'en auld Britain peace, Till she has scarce a tester: For me, thank God! my life's a lease, Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese 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, God-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonnie barges An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege! may Freedom geck In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birthday. Yet aft a ragged cowte 's been known So, ye may doucely fill a throne, Few better were or braver ; For you, right rev'rend Osnaburgh, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although 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, stem an' stern, Well rigged for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she 'll discern Come full that day. Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', Ye royal lasses dainty, Heaven mak' you guid as weel as braw, An' gi'e you lads a-plenty! 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 ha'e seen their coggie fou, THE FAREWELL. [Written when the Poet was meditating an escape to the West Indies, from all the griefs and difficulties surrounding him in Scotland, just before he awoke to find himself famous on the morrow of the publication of his small volume at Kilmarnock.] "The valiant in himself, what can he suffer? Or what does he regard his single woes? But when, alas! he multiplies himself, To dearer selves, to the loved, tender fair, To those whose bliss, whose being hang upon him, To helpless children! then, oh, then he feels The point of misery festering in his heart, And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. Such, such am I! undone!" THOMSON'S Edward and Eleanora. FAREWELL old Scotia's bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains Where rich ananas blow! A faithful brother I have left, My Smith, my bosom frien'; Oh, then befriend my Jean! What bursting anguish tears my heart! From thee, my Jeanie, must I part! Thou, weeping, answerest, "No!" All hail then, the gale then, It rustles, and whistles I'll never see thee more! VERSES LEFT IN THE ROOM WHERE THE POET SLEPT A DEDICATION TO GAVIN [It was from Gavin Hamilton, already mentioned as a writer to the signet at Mauchline, Loudoun, the chief landed proprietor of the and who was principal tenant of the Earl of neighbourhood, that the Poet, shortly after the death of his father, William Burness, took the sub-lease of the farm of Mossgiel. Apart from O THOU dread Power, who reign'st tion, it was upon the whole a most fortunate the farm itself, which proved an unlucky specula [The friend here alluded to was the Rev. George Lawrie, D.D., at the time of their acquaintance fifty-seven years of age and minister of Loudoun.] above, I know Thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love I make my prayer sincere! The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, Their hope, their stay, their darling In manhood's dawning blush; The beauteous, seraph sister-band, connection, for the young lawyer was not only EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration, This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them Maun please the great folk for a wame- For me! sae laigh I needna bow, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand-It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. Guide Thou their steps alway! The Poet, some guid angel help him, When, soon or late, they reach that Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, coast, O'er life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in heaven! He may do weel for a' he's done yet, The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgi'e me, I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Then patronize them wi' your favour, Learn three-mile prayers, an' half-mile That kens or hears about you, Sir— |