A Dream


Guid-Mornin` to our Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses
On ev`ry new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes.
My bardship here, at your Levee
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

I see ye`re complimented thrang,
By mony a lord an` 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 an` ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne`er do wrang,
But aye 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:
So, nae reflection on your Grace,
Your Kingship to bespatter;
There`s mony waur been o` the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.

`Tis very true, my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be doubted;
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An` downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e`en right reft and clouted,
And now the third part o` the string,
An` less, will gang aboot 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:
But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,
Ye`ve trusted ministration
To chaps wha in barn or byre
Wad better fill`d their station
Than courts yon day.

And now ye`ve gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaister,
Your sair taxation does her fleece,
Till she has scarce a tester:
For me, thank God, my life`s a lease,
Nae bargain wearin` faster,
Or, faith! I fear, that, wi` the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I` the craft some day.

I`m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An` Will`s a true guid fallow`s get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
An` lessen a` your charges;
But, God-sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonie barges
An`boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An` may ye rax Corruption`s neck,
And gie her for dissection!
But since I`m here, I`ll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,
To pay your Queen, wi` due respect,
May fealty an` subjection
This great birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment,
A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonie bairntime, Heav`n has lent,
Still higher may they heeze ye
In bliss, till fate some day is sent
For ever to release ye
Frae care that day.

For you, young Potentate o`Wales,
I tell your highness fairly,
Down Pleasure`s stream, wi` swelling sails,
I`m tauld ye`re driving rarely;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
An` curse your folly sairly,
That e`er ye brak Diana`s pales,
Or rattl`d dice wi` Charlie
By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowt`s been known,
To mak a noble aiver;
So, ye may doucely fill the throne,
For a`their clish-ma-claver:
There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver:
And yet, wi` funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver
For mony a day.

For you, right rev`rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho` a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog,
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then swith! an` get a wife to hug,
Or trowth, ye`ll stain the mitre
Some luckless day!

Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,
Ye`ve lately come athwart her-
A glorious galley,^4 stem and stern,
Weel rigg`d for Venus` barter;
But first hang out, that she`ll discern,
Your hymeneal charter;
Then heave aboard your grapple airn,
An` large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a`,
Ye royal lasses dainty,
Heav`n mak you guid as well as braw,
An` gie you lads a-plenty!
But sneer na British boys awa!
For kings are unco scant aye,
An` German gentles are but sma`,
They`re better just than want aye
On ony day.

Gad bless you a`! consider now,
Ye`re unco muckle dautit;
But ere the course o` life be through,
It may be bitter sautit:
An` I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow`t at it.
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautit
Fu` clean that day.

Czytaj dalej: Miła ma jak czerwona róża - Robert Burns