Or fhootin o' a hare or moorcock, But will you tell me, mafter Cefar, CESAR. L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I It's true, they need na starve or sweat, A country fellow at the pleugh, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: Their days infipid, dull and tastelefs, An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, The men caft out in party matches The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, There's fome exceptions man an' woman; By this, the fun was out o' fight, 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, An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 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! 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; |