By the RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, ESQ. Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.

I.
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Ye lawland Bards! who’ are ye aw!
What are your sangs? What aw your lair too boot?
Vain are your thowghts the prize to win,
Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din;
Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! hoot!——
Put oot aw your Attic feires,
Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres;
A looder, and a looder note I’ll strieke:——
Na watter drawghts fra’ Helicon I heed,
Na will I moont your winged steed—
I’ll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike!—

II.
Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring,
Coom, lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing!
Ye canny maidens tee; wha aw the wheile,
Sa sweetly luik, sa sweetly smeile,
Coom hither aw, and round me thrang,
Wheil I tug oot my peips, and gi’ ye aw a canty sang.
Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!
Wha, gifted by the gods abuin,
Wi’ meikle taste, and meikle airt,
Fairst garr’d his canny peipe to lilt a tune!
To the sweet whussel join’d the pleesan drane,
And made the poo’rs of music aw his ain.
On thee, on thee I caw—thou deathless spreight!
Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight;
Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm:
And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm,
Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue.
I feel, I feel thy poo’r divine!
Laurels! kest ye to the groond,
Aroond my heed, my country’s pride I tweine—
Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon’d—
Sa sud gret GEOURGE be sung!

III.
Fra hills, wi’ heathers clad, that smeilan bluim
Speite o’ the northern blaist;
Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!
Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,
That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel;
Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o’ sic a king;
Lugs that in music’s soonds ha’ mickle taste.
Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,
Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;
Now, laddies! lood blaw up your chanters;
For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa leel.
Canny Montrose’s son leads on the ranters.
Thoo Laird o’ Graham! by manie a cheil ador’d,
Who boasts his native fillabeg restor’d;
I croon thee—maister o’ the spowrt!
Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,
Weind the reel, and wave the daunce;
Noo they rant, and noo they loup,
And noo they shew their brawny doup,
And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o’ the court,
Sa in the guid buik are we tauld,
Befoor the halie ark,
The guid King David, in the days of auld,
Daunc’d, like a wuid thing, in his sark,
Wheil Sion’s dowghters (’tis wi’ sham I speak’t)
Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain,
Keck’d, and lawgh’d,
And lawgh’d, and keck’d,
And lawgh’d, and keck’d again.
Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight,
Sa micke did the King their glowran eyne delight.

IV.
Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!
And stint your spowrts awce:
Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,
O’ersheenan aw the lave;
He comes, he comes!
Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!
Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks;
Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,
My tongue, its wunsome poo’rs, devote,
To gratitude and thee;
To thee, the sweetest o’ thy ain parfooms,
Orixa’s preide sud blaze
On thee, thy gems of purest rays;
Back fra’ this saund, their genuine feires sud shed,
And Rumbold’s Crawdle vie wuth Hasting’s Bed.
But heev’n betook us weil! and keep us weise!
Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command!
“Keep, keep thy tongue,” a warlock cries,
And waves his gowden wand.

V.
Noo, laddies! gi’ your baugpipes breeth again;
Blaw the loo’d, but solemn, strain:
Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,
In mejesty sedate,
In pride elate,
The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;
Onward he stalks in froonan state;
Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,
Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit;
Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,
Fra’ Tommy Toonsend up to Wully Pitt!
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine:
To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.
’Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,
’Tis GEOURGE demands her care;
Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!
See! where with Atlantean shoulder,
Amazing each beholder,
Beneath a tott’ring empire’s weight.
Full six feet high he stands, and therefore—great!

VI.
Come then, aw ye POO’rs of vairse!
Gi’ me great GEOURGE’s glories to rehearse;
And as I chaunt his kingly awks,
The list’nan warld fra me sall lairn
Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks,
And weel he gets his Queen wi’ bairn.
Give me, with all a Laureat’s art to jumble,
Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble!
Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick’s Royal line;
Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!
Thus, crooned by his lib’ral hand.
Give me to lead the choral band;
Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sail peipe swell with his princely name,
And this eternal truth proclaim:
’Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA’s land!