Far be’t frae me that I aspire
     To blame your legislation,
     Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
     To rule this mighty nation: 
     But faith!  I muckle doubt, my sire,
     Ye’ve trusted ministration
     To chaps wha in barn or byre
     Wad better fill’d their station
     Than courts yon day.

     And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,
     Her broken shins to plaister,
     Your sair taxation does her fleece,
     Till she has scarce a tester: 
     For me, thank God, my life’s a lease,
     Nae bargain wearin’ faster,
     Or, faith!  I fear, that, wi’ the geese,
     I shortly boost to pasture
     I’ the craft some day.

     [Footnote 1:  The American colonies had recently been lost.]

     I’m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
     When taxes he enlarges,
     (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get,
     A name not envy spairges),
     That he intends to pay your debt,
     An’ lessen a’ your charges;
     But, God-sake! let nae saving fit
     Abridge your bonie barges
     An’boats this day.

     Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck
     Beneath your high protection;
     An’ may ye rax Corruption’s neck,
     And gie her for dissection! 
     But since I’m here, I’ll no neglect,
     In loyal, true affection,
     To pay your Queen, wi’ due respect,
     May fealty an’ subjection
     This great birth-day.

     Hail, Majesty most Excellent! 
     While nobles strive to please ye,
     Will ye accept a compliment,
     A simple poet gies ye? 
     Thae bonie bairntime, Heav’n has lent,
     Still higher may they heeze ye
     In bliss, till fate some day is sent
     For ever to release ye
     Frae care that day.

     For you, young Potentate o’Wales,
     I tell your highness fairly,
     Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,
     I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely;
     But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
     An’ curse your folly sairly,
     That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales,
     Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie
     By night or day.

     Yet aft a ragged cowt’s been known,
     To mak a noble aiver;
     So, ye may doucely fill the throne,
     For a’their clish-ma-claver: 
     There, him^2 at Agincourt wha shone,
     Few better were or braver: 
     And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,^3
     He was an unco shaver
     For mony a day.

     For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,
     Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
     Altho’ a ribbon at your lug
     Wad been a dress completer: 
     As ye disown yon paughty dog,
     That bears the keys of Peter,
     Then swith! an’ get a wife to hug,
     Or trowth, ye’ll stain the mitre
     Some luckless day!