Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand, Dance by fu' light. The magic-wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's speeld, See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, Wi' wrinkl'd face, Comes hoftin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' creeping pace. When ence life's day draws near the gloamin, Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin; An' fareweel chear fu' tankards foamin, An' focial noife; An' fairweel dear, deluding woman, The joy of joys! O Life! how pleafant is thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold-paufing Caution's leffon fcorning, We frisk away, Like fchool-boys, at th' expected warning, To joy and play. We wander there, we wander here, We the rofe upon. eye the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Among the leaves; And tho' the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry fpot, For which they never toil d nor fwat ; They drink the fweet and eat the fat, No care or pain ; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high difdain, With fteady aim, fome Fortune chafe ; Keen Hope does every finew brace; Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, And feize the prey: Then canie, in fome cozie place, They clofe the day. And others, like your humble fervan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads obfervin; To right or left, eternal fwervin, They zig-zag on; Till curft with age, obscure an' starvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an' ftrainingBut truce with peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waining? E'en let her gang! Beneath what light fhe has remaining, Let's fing our fang. Whilft I-but I fhall haud me there Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where— Then Jamie, I fhall fay nae mair, But quat my fang, Content with You to mak a pair, Where'er I gang. A DRE A M. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reafon ; But furely Dreams were ne'er indied Treafon. [On reading, in the public papers, the I aureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the Au thor was no fooner dropt afleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth day Levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] 1. GJID-MORNIN to your Majesty! May Heaven augment your bliffes, On every new Birth-day ye fee, An humble Bardie wifhes! My Bardhip here at your Levee, Sae fine this day. II. I fee ye're complimented thrang God fave the King!''s a cuckoo fang The Poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, Wad gar you true ne'er do wrang, . ye But ay unerring fteady, On fic a day. III. For me! before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither Penfion, Poft, nor Place, So, nae reflection on Your Grace, Your Kingship to bespatter; There's monie waur been o' the Race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. IV. Tis very true, my fovereign King, My skill weel be doubted: may Eut Facts are Chiels that winna ding, An' downa be difputed: Your Royal Neít, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft and clouted, An' lefs, will gang about it, Than did ae day. |