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Or shootin o'a hare or moorcock,
But will you tell me, malter Cefar, Sure great folks life s a life o' pleasure ? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vara thought o't need na fear them.
CÆSAR. L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, a The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em,
It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
A country fellow at the pleugh,
Their days infipid, dull and tasteless,
An'er'n their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping thro' public places, There fic parade, fie pomp an'art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
There's some exceptions map an’ woman; But this is gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' fight,
The bun-clock humm’d wi' lazy drone, The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs ; An' each took aff his several way, Refolv'd to meet some ither day.
SCOTCH DR IN K.
Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That's finking in despair ;
That's prest wi' grief and care :
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
An' minds his griefs no more.
SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6, 7.
LET other Poets raise a fracas
other Poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An'crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug, I fing the juice Scotch beer can mak us,
In glass or jug.
Othou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink !
In glorious faem,
To Sing thy name!
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
Perfume the plain, Lecze me on thee, John Barlicorn,
Thou king oʻgrain.
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
Wi' kail an' beef;
There thou shines 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 oild by thee, The wheels o’life
Wi' ratlin glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care ; Thou strings the nerves o' Labor fair,
At's weary toil;
Wi' gloomy smile.