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Hail, Majesty Most Excellent !

While nobles strive to please ye, Will ye except 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,* 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. * Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor's amour,

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.

To“The Dream,” I have heard, the neglect shown by the Government to the Poet imputed. No doubt it was otherwise than acceptable at court, and we know that Mrs.Dunlop and Mrs. Stewart of Stair, solicited, in vain, to have it omitted in the Edinburgh edition. It is likely that the suppression of the poem would have been of no benefit to the bard. The ear of his Majesty, like that of Pitt and Dundas, was not to be charmed by sweet sounds: he who mistook Pye for a poet was not likely to regard Burns as one. Nor were his ministers more merciful than their master to the tuneful and the inspired: What bard could command a dozen votes for a borough? Interest and influence were every thing, and genius was as nothing. Few of the commentators have ventured to discuss the merits of “ The Dream.” They are of a high order-the gaiety as well as keenness of the satire, and the vehement rapidity of the verse, are not the only attractions. Even the prose introduction is sarcastic—the Poet, on reading the Laureate's Ode, fell asleep-a likely consequence, for the birth-day strains of those times were something of the dullest.

The poem seems prophetic ; the young potentate of

Wales lived to rue that he had “ broken Diana's pales, and rattled dice with Charlie;" por was the Bishop of Osnaburg long in getting a wife, as well as a ribbon to his lug, but this did not hinder him from going wrong in the very way intimated by the Poet. The hymeneal charter, which he proposes to the Royal Sailor, in the affair of the “glorious galley,” or the early marriage which he recommends to the “ bonnie blossoms—the royal lasses dainty”—might have been beneficial to Britain. The last verse of the poem seems to intimate the coming of some great change among the nations : had the island spirit not stood firm, a scattering, such as France and other kingdoms endured, might have taken place. The poem, it must be acknowledged, is uncommonly bold and audacious.


Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near ;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

0, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave ;
Here pause-and, through the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

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