Faith you and Applecross were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight: I doubt na! they wad bid nae better, Than let them ance out owre the water, Then up among thae lakes and seas, They’ll mak what rules and laws they please: Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed, Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire! Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville, To watch and premier o’er the pack vile,— An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons To bring them to a right repentance— To cowe the rebel generation, An’ save the honour o’ the nation? They, an’ be d-d! what right hae they To meat, or sleep, or light o’ day? Far less—to riches, pow’r, or freedom, But what your lordship likes to gie them? But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear! Your hand’s owre light to them, I fear; Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, I canna say but they do gaylies; They lay aside a’ tender mercies, An’ tirl the hallions to the birses; Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet, They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit: But smash them! crash them a’ to spails, An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; Let wark an’ hunger mak them sober! The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont, Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d! An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats Come thiggin at your doors an’ yetts, Flaffin wi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’, Frightin away your ducks an’ geese; Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, The langest thong, the fiercest growler, An’ gar the tatter’d gypsies pack Wi’ a’ their bastards on their back! Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you, An’ in my house at hame to greet you; Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle, The benmost neuk beside the ingle, At my right han’ assigned your seat, ’Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate: Or if you on your station tarrow, Between Almagro and Pizarro, A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t; An’ till ye come—your humble servant, Beelzebub. June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790. 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 Laureate’s Ode, with the other parade 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: