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part o’ the string,

      35 An’ less, will gang about it go

      Than did ae day. one

      Far be’t frae me that I aspire from

      To blame your Legislation,

      Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire

      40 To rule this mighty nation:

      But faith! I muckle doubt, my SIRE, much

      Ye’ve trusted ’Ministration

      To chaps wha in a barn or byre who

      Wad better fill’d their station,

      45 Than courts yon day.

      And now Ye’ve gien auld Britain peace, given old

      Her broken shins to plaister; plaster

      Your sair taxation does her fleece, sore

      Till she has scarce a tester: sixpence

      50 For me, thank God, my life’s a lease, a tenant farm lease

      Nae bargain wearin faster, no

      Or faith! I fear, that, wi’ the geese,

      I shortly boost to pasture must

      I’ the craft some day.

      55 I’m no mistrusting Willie Pit,

      When taxes he enlarges,

      (An’ Will’s a true guid fallow’s get, good, breed

      A Name not Envy spairges), bespatters

      That he intends to pay your debt,

      60 An’ lessen a’ your charges;

      But, God sake! let nae saving fit no

      Abridge your bonie Barges handsome

      An’ Boats this day.

      Adieu, my LIEGE! may Freedom geck sport

      65 Beneath your high protection;

      An’ may Ye rax Corruption’s neck,

      And gie her for dissection! give

      But since I’m here I’ll no neglect,

      In loyal, true affection,

      70 To pay your QUEEN, wi’ due respect,

      My fealty an’ subjection

      This great Birth-day.

      Hail, Majesty most Excellent!

      While Nobles strive to please Ye,

      75 Will Ye accept a Compliment,

      A simple Bardie gies Ye? gives

      Thae bonie Bairntime, Heav’n has lent, that pretty brood

      Still higher may they heeze Ye hoist

      In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,

      80 For ever to release Ye

      Frae Care that day. from

      For you, young Potentate o’ Wales,

      I tell your Highness fairly,

      Down Pleasure’s stream, wi’ swelling sails,

      85I’m tauld ye’re driving rarely; told, unusually well

      But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

      An’ curse your folly sairly, sorely

      That e’er ye brak Diana’s pales, break

      Or rattl’d dice wi’ Charlie

      90 By night or day.

      Yet aft a ragged Cowte’s been known, colt

      To mak a noble Aiver; make, old horse

      So, ye may doucely fill a Throne, soberly

      For a’ their clish-ma-claver: gossip

      95 There, Him at Agincourt wha shone, who

      Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi’ funny, queer Sir John,1

      He was an unco shaver a great madcap

      For monie a day. many

      100 For you, right rev’rend Osnaburg,

      Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, none, becomes

      Altho’ a ribban at your lug ribbon, ear

      Wad been a dress compleater: would

      As ye disown yon paughty dog, proud

      105 That bears the Keys of Peter,

      Then swith! an’ get a wife to hug,

      Or trowth, ye’ll stain the Mitre in truth

      Some luckless day.

      Young, royal TARRY-BREEKS, I learn,

      110 Ye’ve lately come athwart her;

      A glorious Galley, stem an’ stern

Weel rigg’d for Venus barter;2 well

      But first hang out that she’ll discern

      Your hymeneal Charter;

      115 Then heave aboard your grapple-airn, grappling iron

      An’, large upon her quarter,

      Come full that day.

      Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a’,

      Ye royal Lasses dainty,

      120 Heav’n mak you guid as weel as braw, good, well, fair

      An’ gie you lads a-plenty: give

      But sneer na British-boys awa! not, away

      For Kings are unco scant ay, greatly scarce

      An’ German-gentles are but sma’, small

      125 They’re better just than want ay

      On onie day. any

      God bless you a’! consider now,

      Ye’re unco muckle dautet; greatly fussed over

      But ere the course o’ life be through,

      130 It may be bitter sautet: salted

      An’ I hae seen their coggie fou, have, plate full

      That yet hae tarrow’t at it; shown reluctance

      But or the day was done, I trow, believe

      The laggen they hae clautet bottom, have scraped

      135 Fu’ clean that day.

      Byron must have read this with admiration; he himself never wrote anything funnier or, amidst the laughter, landed on the Hanoverians, he also so loathed, so many palpable hits. Describing it as a ‘dream’ allows Burns, as in the headquote, to claim its non-serious nature and intent. It also, of course, allows him direct, deadly access as ‘humble poet’ into the royal birthday levee.

      George’s birthday on 4th June 1786 had been celebrated by the laureate, Thomas Warton with a Pindaric ode. Burns’s almost immediate response to this sycophantic work enabled him to insert the poem into the Kilmarnock edition. These were not the sentiments of a complicit ‘heaven taught ploughman’ and Mrs Dunlop was quick to warn him as to the commercial consequences of such satire. On 26th February 1787 she wrote to him urging that A Dream should be excluded from the second

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