Robert Burns

The Complete Works


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of June 4th, 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.”

      [The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.]

      Guid-mornin’ to your Majesty!

      May Heaven augment your blisses,

      On ev’ry new birth-day ye see,

      A humble poet 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 dresses

      Sae fine this day.

      I see ye’re complimented thrang,

      By many a lord an’ lady;

      “God save the King!” ‘s a cuckoo sang

      That’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 better

      Than you this day.

      ’Tis very true, my sov’reign 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 it

      Than did ae day.

      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 a 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 wearing faster,

      Or, faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,

      I shortly boost to pasture

      I’ 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, G-d-sake! let nae saving-fit

      Abridge your bonnie 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, with due respect,

      My 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 gi’es ye?

      Thae bonnie 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 cowte’s been known

      To mak a noble aiver;

      So, ye may doucely fill 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 shaver

      For monie 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, trouth! ye’ll stain the mitre

      Some luckless day.

      Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,

      Ye’ve lately come athwart her;

      A glorious galley,[58] stem an’ stern,

      Weel rigg’d for Venus’ barter;

      But first hang out, that she’ll discern

      Your hymeneal charter,

      Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

      An’, large upon her quarter,

      Come full that day.

      Ye, lastly, bonnie 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’