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!