NUMBER XIII. IRREGULAR ODE, By the RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, Esq. Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c. I. HOOT! hoot awaw! Hoot! hoot awaw! Ye lawland Bards! who' are ye aw! What are your sangs? what aw your lair too boot? Vain are your thowghts the prize to win, Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din; Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! hoot!. Put oot aw your Attic feires, Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres; A looder, and a looder note I'll strieke: Na watter drawghts fra' Helicon I heed, Na will I moont your winged steed I'll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike! II. Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring, Coom hither aw, and round me thrang, Wheil I lug oot my peips, and gi' ye-aw a canty sáng. Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt! Wi' meikle taste, and meikle airt, Fairst garr'd his canny peipe to lilt a tune; To the sweet whussel join'd the pleesan drane, And made the poo'rs of music aw his ain. On thee, on thee I caw-thou deathless spreight! Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight; Ah! smeile on me, insruct me hoo to chairm : And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm, Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue. I feel, I feel thy poo'r divine! Laurels! kest ye to the groond, Aroond my heed, my country's pride I tweine→→→ Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom! That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel; Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o' sic a king; I croon thee-maister o' the spowrt! And noo they shew their brawny doup, And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o' the court. Sa in the guid buik are we tauld, Befoor the halie ark, The guid King David, in the days of auld, Daunc'd, like a wuid thing, in his sark; Wheil Sion's dowghters ('tis wi' sham I speak't) Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain, Keck'd, and lawgh'd, And lawgh'd, and keck'd, And lawgh'd, and keck'd again. Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight, Sa micke did the King their glowran eyne delight. IV. Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund! Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave, He comes, he comes! Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks! To thee, the sweetest o' thy ain parfooms, On thee, thy gems of purest rays; Back fra' this saund, their genuine feires sud shed, And Rumbold's Crawdle vie wuth Hasting's Bed. But hecv'n betook us weil! and keep us weise ! V. Noo, laddies! gi' your baugpipes breeth again; Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure, In pride clate, The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure; Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend, Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend. Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King! Amazing each beholder, Beneath a tott'ring empire's weight. Full six feet high he stands, and therefore-great! VI. Come then, aw ye Poo'rs of vairse! Gi' me great GEOURGE's glories to rehearse; And as I chaunt his kingly awks, The list'nan warld fra me sall lairn Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks, And weel he gets his Queen wi' bairn. Give me to lead the choral band; 'Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA's land! |