YE that are lords o’ fixed degree,
Ye that are lords by why lies;
Ye proveses o’ rank, and ye
That are but baron-bailies;
Ye members o’ the shires an’ broughs,
Win up, an’ hud ye ready
To boo your backs an’ crook your houghs
Afore your sovran leddy.

Ye ministers and men o’ weir,
Peace sodgers an’ land sailors,
Auld heroes to the service dear,
An’ young anes dear to tailors,
Ye new-made knichts an' nobles a’—
She made ye men o’ honour;
Weel may ye rise up in a raw
An’ shooer your thanks upon her.

Ye waitin’ dames sae dink an' braw
Wi' laids o* costly claithing;
Ye bonnie lasses, best o’ a'
Wi* juist a flooer—or naething!
Ye office wands, an' flunkey lords,
An’ pages pouthered meetly—
Noo hud a ticht grip o’ the cords
An’ guide the coorse discreetly.

Ye college dons, fra proctor douri
To him that but professes,
Noo, noo’s the time to tuck your goun
An’ draw up your addresses;
An' let your Latin be as snug
As if she kent the roond o’t,
For by my faith she’ll lend a lug
An’ judge ye by the soond o’t.

Ye parsons groanin’ aye wi’ griefs,
The warld’s maybe mendin’;
Ye lawyers, lay aside your briefs,
Ill-named—they ne’er have endin’;
An’ tak’ the hills or tak’ the dales
As wild as e’er ye wandert,
Like laddies broken fra the schules
An’ free o’ stripe an’ standart!

An’, lastly, ye that flood the street,
A roarin’ spate o’ people,
Splashed up to wa’ an’ window-seat,
To chimla-stack an’steeple—
It sets ye weel to male* the din
Ye may indulge the morn,
But dinna loup oot o' your skin,
An* be content wi' roarin’.

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye hills, sune to be blazin' hie,
As if by-lichtnin' smitten,
Ye countries scattered ower the sea
That mak' the Greater Britain,
Shout an' shine oot! tell a* that speer,
Wi' a’ the speed ye may noo,
That after towlin' fifty year,
Oor Queen tak’s holiday noo!

THE END.