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Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!
Fairst garr'd his canny peipe to lilt a tune; To the sweet whussel join'd the pleesan drane, And made the poo'rs of music aw his ain. On thee, on thee I caw-thou deathless spreight! Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight; Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm;
And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm, Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue. I feel, 1 feel thy poo'r divine!
Laurels! kest ye to the groond,
Aroond my heed, my country's pride I tweine→→→
Sa sud great GioURGE be sung!
1 1 Ji U 7 let
Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim
Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!
Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o' sic a King;
I croon thee-maister o' the spowrt!
920 'N BO CI
Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,
Noo they rant, and noo they loup,
And noo they shew their brawny doup,
Befoor the halie ark,
The guid King David, in the days of auld, Daunc'd, like a wuid thing, in his sark ; Wheil Sion's dowghters ('t is 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,
Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!
Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!
Fain wad my peipe its loudest note,
To gratitude and thee;
To thee, the sweetest o' thy ain parfooms,
Orixa's preide sud blaze
On thee, thy gems of purest rays;
But heev'n betook us weil! and keep us weise!
Noo, laddies! gi' your baugpipes breeth again;
The smuith-cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;
Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,
Na wall he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine:
To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.
Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!
See! where with Atlantean 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!
Gi' me great GEOURGE's glories to rehearse;
And as I chaunt his kingly awks,
The list'nan warld fra me sall lairn
And weel he gets his Queen wi' bairn.
Give me to lead the choral band;
Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sall my peipe swell with his princely name,
Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURCE, who rules BRI-
By DR. JOSEPH WARTON,
In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.
O! FOR the breathings of the Doric ote!
O! for the Theban eagle's wing of fire!
O! for each stop and string that swells th’Aonian quire!
That drank the dew of Isis' lowly mead,
And wild pipe, fashion'd from th' embatted sedge
Of my own Cherwell loves to grow:
Should bear me on its tow'ring wing;
To view with fix'd and steadfast eye
Of Heaven's dread Lord, and what I see to sing.
Like Heaven's dread Lord, great George his voice can
From babes' and sucklings' mouths to hymn his perfect
In poesy's trim rhymes and high resounding phrase.