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Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt !
Wi' meikle taste, and meikle airt,
And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm,
Laurels! kest ye to the groond,
Sa sud a Scottish baird be croond
Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim
Speite o' the northern blaist;
Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,
Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,
Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;
For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa deel,
Who boasts his native fillabeg, restor'd; ;
I croon thee maister o' the spowrt!
And noo they shew their brawny doup,
Befoor the halie ark,
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.
And stint your spowrts awee :
O'ersheenan aw the lave;
He comes, he comes !
Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,
To gratitude and thee;
Orixa's preide sud blaze
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;
In mejesty sedate,
In pride clate,
Onward he stalks in froonan state ;
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds ! of inickle wit;
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 !
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.
Thus, crooned by his lib’ral hand.
And this eternal truth proclaim : 'Tis GeoURGE, Imperial GeoURGE, who rules
· NUMBER XIV...
By Dr. JOSEPH WARTON,
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,
Which on the twilight edge
Should bear me on its tow'ring wing ;
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.