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Or fhootin o' a hare or moorcock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will you tell me, mafter Cefar,
Sure great folks life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can fteer them,
The vara thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro' Winter's cauld, or Simmer's heat;
They've nae fair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' graaes ;
But human bodies are fic fools
For a' their colleges and fchools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themfelves to vex them;
In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right enough;
A country girl at her wheel,

Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curft.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Tho' deil hate ails them, yet uneafy ;

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Their days infipid, dull and tastelefs,
Their nights unquiet, lang, and reftlefs."

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places,
There fic parade, fie pomp an' art,
The joy can fcarcely reach the heart.

The men caft out in party matches
The fowther a' in deep debauches.
At night, they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Nieft day their life is paft enduring.

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as fifters ;
But hear their abfent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, owre the wi bit cup an' platie,
They fip the fcandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi'crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's ftackyard,
An cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.

There's fome exceptions man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.

By this, the fun was out o' fight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night :

The bun-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, The kye ftood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat an' fhook their lugs, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs; An' each took aff his feveral way, Refolv'd to meet fome ither day.

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him frong drink until he wink,
That's finking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's preft wi' grief and care :
There let him boufe an' deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.

SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, XXXI. 6, 7.

LET other Poets raife a fracas

'Bout vines an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,

An' crabbit names an' ftories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I fing the juice Scotch beer can mak us,

In glass or jug.

O thou, my Mufe! guid auld Scotch Drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Infpire me, till I lifp an' wink

To Sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn, An' Aits fet up their awnie horn,

An' Pease an' Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barlicorn,

Thou king o'grain.

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In fouple fcones, the wale o' food!

Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy ftrong heart's blood,

There thou fhines chief,

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,

When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grivin;

But oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill fcrievin,

Wi ratlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care; Thou ftrings the nerves o' Labor fair,

At's weary toil;

Thou ev'n brightens dark Defpair,

Wi' gloomy fmile.

Aft clad in maffy filler weed,

Wi' Gentles thou erects thy beed;

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