When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n- A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed," And may ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th' adviser! ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M'Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing LIBERTY. LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Faith you and Applecross were right They'll mak what rules and laws they please: Some Washington again may head them, Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville, An' save the honour o' the nation? But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear! Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Come thiggin at your doors an' yetts, An' in my house at hame to greet you; June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790. Beelzebub. A DREAM Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; 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 My bardship here, at your Levee Is sure an uncouth sight to see, I see ye're complimented thrang, By mony a lord an' 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 an' ready, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. For me! before a monarch's face, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your Grace, Your Kingship to bespatter; There's mony waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. "Tis very true, my sovereign King, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, An' less, will gang aboot it Than did ae day.' Far be't frae me that I aspire 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, Till she has scarce a tester: For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. 1 The American colonies had recently been lost. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck 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 bonie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 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 cowt's been known, To mak a noble aiver; |