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Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt !
Wha, gifted by the gods abuin,

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 iny 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

Sa sud a Scottish baird be croond
Sa sud gret GEDURGE be sung!

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Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim

Speite o' the northern blaist;
Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom !

Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,
That sounds sa sweetly, and sa weel;
Sweet soonds ! that please the lugs o'sic a king;
Lugs that in music's soonds ha' mickle taste.

Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,

Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;
Now, laddies ! lood blaw up your chanters; !

For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa deel,
Canny Montrose's son leads on the ranters. ..
Thoo Laird o' Graham! by manie a cheil. ador'da

Who boasts his native fillabeg, restor'd; ;

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I croon thee maister o' the spowrt!
Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,
Weind the reel, and wave the daunce ;
Noo they rant, and noo they loup,

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 ('uis 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 Ķing their glowran eyne delight.

Anewgh ! anewgh! noo haud your haund !

And stint your spowrts awee :
Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,

O'ersheenan aw the lave;

He comes, he comes !
Aw hail ! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks !
Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks ;

Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,
My tongue, its wunsome poo’rs, devote,

To gratitude and thee;
To thee, the sweetest o’thy ain parfooms,

Orixa's preide sud blaze
On thee, thy gems of purest rays ;
Back fra' this saund, their genuine feires sud sheday
And Rumbold's Crawdle vie wuth Hasting's Bed.

But hecv'n betook us weil! and keep us weise !

Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command ! “ Keep, keep thy tongue,” a warlock cries,

And waves his gowden wand.


Noo, laddies! gi' your baugpipes breeth again;
Blaw the loo'd, but solemn, strain :
Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,

In mejesty sedate,

In pride clate,
The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure ;

Onward he stalks in froonan state ;
Na fuilish siniles his broos unbend,
Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.

Hail to ye, lesser Lairds ! of inickle wit;
Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,
Fra' Tommy Toonsend up to Wully Pitt!
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair

To ye maun I the sang confeine: To nobler fieights the muse expands her wing. 'Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,

'Tis George demands her care; Breetons ! boo down your heed, and hail your King !

See! where with Atlantcan shoulder,

Amazing each beholder,

Beneath a tott'ring empire's weight. Full six feet high he stands, and therefore-great!


Come then, aw ye Poo’rs of vairse !
Gi' me great GEOURCE'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, with all a Laureat's art to jumble,
Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble !
Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick's Royal line ;
Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine !

Thus, crooned by his lib’ral hand.
Give me to lead the choral band;
Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sall peipe swell with his princely name,

And this eternal truth proclaim : 'Tis GeoURGE, Imperial GeoURGE, who rules





In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.

O! For the breathings of the Doric ote!

O! for the warblings of the Lesbian lyre ! O! for the Aleean trump's terrific note!

O! for the Theban eagle's wing of fire ! O! for each stop and string that swells th' Aonian quire ! Then should this hallow'd day in worthy strain sbe sung, And with due laurel wreaths thy cradle, Brunswick, hung! But tho' uncouth iny numbers flow

-From a rude reed,-

That drank the dew of Isis’ lowly mead,
And wild pipe, fashion'd from the embatted sedge

Which on the twilight edge
Of my own Cherwell loves to grow :
The god-like theme alone

Should bear me on its tow'ring wing ;
Bear me unda unted to the throne,

To view with fix'd and stedfast eye

-The delegated majesty Of heav'ns dread lord, and what I see to sing. Like heaven's dread lord, great George his voice car

raise, From babes and suckling's mouths to hymn his perfect

praise, In poesy's trim rhymes and high resounding phrase.

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