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THE

KING'S BIRTH-DAY

IN EDINBURGH.

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte, vidisses.

POLEMO-MIDDINIA,

I sing the day sae aften sung,
Wi which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung

A’ kind o print ;
But vow! the limmer's fairly flung;

There's naething in't.

and name,

I'm fain to think the joys the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fouk of ilka

age

Baith blind and cripple, Forgather aft, О fie for shame!

To drink and tipple.

THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH.

O Muse, be kind, and dinna fash us
To flee awa' beyont Parnassus,
Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,

That heath’nish spring; Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses,

And

gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill,
You wadna hae the tither gill?
You'll trust me, mair wad do you ill,

And ding you doitet;
Troth 'twould be sair against my will

To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,
Our ancient castle shoots at noon,

Wi' flag-staff buskit, Frae which the soldier blades come down

To cock their musket.

เนจ THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH.

Oh willawins ! Mons Meg, for you,
'Twas firing crack'd thy muckle mou ;
What black mishanter gart ye spew

Baith gut and ga'?
I fear they bang'd thy belly fu'

Against the law.

Right seldom am I gien to bannin,
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,
Cou'd hit a man, had he been stannin

In shire o' Fife
Sax lang Scots mites ayont Clackmannan,

An' tak his life.

The hills in terror wad cry out,
And echo to thy dinsome rout;
The herds wad gather in their nowt,

That glowr'd wi' wonder,
Hafflins afraid to bide thereout

To hear thy thunder.

unn THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH.

Sing likewise, Muse, how blue-gown bodies,
Like scar-craws new ta'en down frae woodies,
Come here to cast their clouted duddies,

And
get
their

pay : Than them what magistrate mair proud is

On king's birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,
In military art weel lear's,
Wi' powder'd pow and shaven beard,

Gang thro their functions, By hostile rabble seldom spar'd

Of clarty unctions.

O soldiers ! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's, alias Land of Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly pakes,

Nor be sqe rude,
VOL. II.

E

num THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH.

Wi' firelock or Lochaber ax,

As spill their blude.

Now round and round the serpents whiz,
Wi' hissing wrath and angry phiz ;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,--

Alake the day!
And singe, wi' hair-devouring bizz,

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Its curls away.

.

Shou'd th' owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature of his wound,
Dead pussie, draggled through the pond,

Taks him a lounder,
Which lays his honour on the ground

As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole and bore ;

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