Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/68

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I see your complimenting thrang
 By mony a lord and lady:
'God save the King!' 's a cuckoo sang,
 That's unco easy said aye:
The Poets too, a venal gang,
 Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready,
Wad gar me trow ye ne'er did 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;
Sae nae reflection on your Grace,
 Your Knightship to bespatter,
There's mony 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,
 And downa be disputed:
Your Royal Nest, beneath your wing,
 Is e'en right reft and clouted;
And now the third part of the string,
 And 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: