Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,
     Ye’ve lately come athwart her—­
     A glorious galley,^4 stem and 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, bonie blossoms a’,
     Ye royal lasses dainty,
     Heav’n mak you guid as well as braw,
     An’ gie you lads a-plenty! 
     But sneer na British boys awa! 
     For kings are unco scant aye,
     An’ German gentles are but sma’,
     They’re better just than want aye
     On ony day.

     [Footnote 2:  King Henry V.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 3:  Sir John Falstaff, vid.  Shakespeare.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 4:  Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain
     Royal sailor’s amour.—­R.  B. This was Prince William Henry,
     third son of George III, afterward King William iv.]

     Gad bless you a’! consider now,
     Ye’re unco muckle dautit;
     But ere the course o’ life be through,
     It may be bitter sautit: 
     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 clautit
     Fu’ clean that day.

A Dedication

     To Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

     Expect na, sir, in this narration,
     A fleechin, fleth’rin Dedication,
     To roose you up, an’ ca’ you guid,
     An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid,
     Because ye’re surnam’d like His Grace—­
     Perhaps related to the race: 
     Then, when I’m tir’d—­and sae are ye,
     Wi’ mony a fulsome, sinfu’ lie,
     Set up a face how I stop short,
     For fear your modesty be hurt.

     This may do—­maun do, sir, wi’ them wha
     Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
     For me! sae laigh I need na bow,
     For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
     And when I downa yoke a naig,
     Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
     Sae I shall say—­an’ that’s nae flatt’rin—­
     It’s just sic Poet an’ sic Patron.

     The Poet, some guid angel help him,
     Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him! 
     He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet,
     But only—­he’s no just begun yet.

     The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me;
     I winna lie, come what will o’ me),
     On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be,
     He’s just—­nae better than he should be.

     I readily and freely grant,
     He downa see a poor man want;
     What’s no his ain, he winna tak it;
     What ance he says, he winna break it;
     Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t,
     Till aft his guidness is abus’d;
     And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
     Ev’n that, he does na mind it lang;
     As master, landlord, husband, father,
     He does na fail his part in either.