THE visit of George IV. to Scotland was purely one of pleasure. There being no railways, and posting being fatiguing, he went by sea, embarking at Greenwich on August 10, 1822, and arriving at Leith on the 14th, not landing, however, till the next day. His visit was not remarkable for anything except the multiplicity of his costumes. He embarked dressed as a private individual; he landed as an Admiral; he dined in full Highland costume (when Sir Walter Scott acted as principal Steward); and at another dinner posed as a Field Marshal. He did very little during his stay, leaving Scotland on August 29, arriving at Greenwich on September 1. A NEW SONG CALLED _KING GEORGE IV.’S WELCOME TO SCOTLAND_. LANG time we’ve waited for our king, That he might caper, rant and fling, And lightly dance and gladly sing, You’re welcome, Royal Geordie. _Chorus._ But oh! you’re lang a-coming, Lang, lang, lang a-coming, O dinna be so lang a-coming, Come awa, King Geordie. Than Glasgow town there is not one, In a’ your great and glorious lan’, Who’d turn out a truer ban’, To guard their Royal Geordie. And, by the powers aboon, we swear If any traitor come you near, The fause loon we’ll in pieces tear, A’ for our love to Geordie. For weel we ken your title’s gude, And shall maintain it with our blude, If any foreign foemen should Dispute the right of Geordie. Then haste ye, Geordie, come awa-- We’ll dress our wives and weans fu’ braw, They’ll rend the lift wi’ loud huzza To welcome their ain Geordie. In Edinbro’ too, time will pass sweet, Frae far and near they’ll Geordie greet, And you shall get braw lodgings meet, To house ye, Royal Geordie. Your Court you’ll haud in Holyrood, Where aft your ancestors have stood, All anxious for the public good, As now is Royal Geordie. The Castle’s ancient wa’ you’ll view, The old Scotch Crown and Sceptre too, To wear them nane has right but you, So come awa, King Geordie. And at Dalkeith with Duke Buccleugh, Your people a’ will round ye bow, Wi’ hearty love and fealty true To you their ain kind Geordie. In Perthshire ye’ll get Athole Brose, And Muir fowl frae the great Montrose, Wi’ us, my lad, ye’ll be jocose, So haste ye here, King Geordie. And, by my troth, there’s not a belle, Even ’mangst the rare ones of Pall Mall, To match the ladies of Dunkeld, Then hie ye north, King Geordie. And we shall dance a Highland Reel, ’Twill please you weel my Royal Chiel, On Scotia’s heath to shake your heel, Wi’ some braw lass, King Geordie.