The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/A Dream
For other versions of this work, see A Dream (Burns).
A DREAM.
Thoughts, words and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.
[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureates Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.]
Guid-mornin to your Majesty!May heaven augment your blisses,On ev'ry new birth-day ye see;A humble Bardie wishes!My Bardship here, at your Levee,On sic a day as this is,Is sure an uncouth sight to see,Amang thae Birth-day dressesSae fine this day.
I see ye're complimented thrang,By many a lord an' lady;'God save the King!' 's a cuckoo sangThat's unco easy said ay;The Poets, too, a venal gang,Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready,Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang,But ay unerring steady,On sic a day.
For me! before a Monarch's face,Ev'n there I winna flatter;For neither pension, post, nor place,Am I your humble debtor:So, nae reflection on Your Grace,Your Kingship to bespatter;There's monie waur been o' the Race,And aiblins ane been betterThan You this day.
'Tis very true, my sovereign King,My skill may weel be doubted:But Facts are chiels that winna ding,An' downa be disputed:Your Royal nest, beneath your wing,Is e'en right reft an' clouted,And now the third part of the string,An' less, will gang about itThan did ae day.
Far be't frae me that I aspireTo 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 MinistrationTo chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,Wad better fill'd their stationThan courts yon day.
And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,Her broken shins to plaister;Your sair taxation does her fleeceTill she has scarce a tester;For me, thank God, my life's a leaseNae bargain wearing faster,Or, faith! I fear that with the geese,I shortly boost to pastureI'the craft some day.
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's sake! let nae saving-fitAbridge your bonie bargesAn' boats this day.
Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geckBeneath 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, with due respect,My fealty an' subjectionThis great Birth-day.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!While nobles strive to please Ye, Will Ye accept a complimentA simple Bardie gies Ye? Thae bonny bairntime Heav'n has lent,Still higher may they heeze ye In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,For ever to release YeFrae care that day.
For you, young Potentate o' Wales,I tell your Highness fairly, Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sailsI'm tauld ye're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails,An' curse your folly sairly, That ere ye brak Diana's pales,Or rattl'd dice wi' CharlieBy night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt's been knownTo mak a noble aiver; Sae, ye may doucely till a Throne,For a' their clish-ma-claver: There, Him at Agincourt wha shone,Few better were or braver; And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,He was an unco shaverFor monie a day.
For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,Altho' a ribban 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, trouth! ye'll stain the MitreSome luckless day.
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley, stem and stern,Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; But first hang out, that she'll discernYour hymeneal charter, Then heave aboard your grapple airnAn', large upon her quarter,Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a',Ye royal Lasses dainty, Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,An' gie you lads a-plenty: But sneer na British boys awa',For Kings are unco scant ay; An' German Gentles are but sma',They're better just than want ay On onie day.
God bless you a'! consider nowYe're unco muckle dautet; But, ere the course o' life be through,It may be bitter sautet: An' I hae seen their coggie fou,That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow,The laggen they hae clautetFu' clean that day.