The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,
     Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d! 
     An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats
     Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts,
     Flaffin wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’,
     Frightin away your ducks an’ geese;
     Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
     The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
     An’ gar the tatter’d gypsies pack
     Wi’ a’ their bastards on their back! 
     Go on, my Lord!  I lang to meet you,
     An’ in my house at hame to greet you;
     Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle,
     The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
     At my right han’ assigned your seat,
     ‘Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate: 
     Or if you on your station tarrow,
     Between Almagro and Pizarro,
     A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t;
     An’ till ye come—­your humble servant,

     Beelzebub. 
     June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.

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 our 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 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,
     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;
     For neither pension, post, nor place,
     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,
     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 and clouted,
     And now the third part o’ the string,
     An’ less, will gang aboot it
     Than did ae day.^1