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

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,
Thro' Winter's cauld, or Simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' grades ;
But human bodies are fic fools
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themselves 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 uneasy;

Their days infipid, dull and tasteless,
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless.

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 fowther a' in deep debauches.
At night, they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.

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

There's some exceptions map an’ woman; But this is gentry's life in common.

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

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 ;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief and care :
There let him boufe an deep carous,

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 raise a fracas

ET

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 !
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink

To Sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
An' Aits set up their awnie horn,
An' Pease an' Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain, Lecze me on thee, John Barlicorn,

Thou king oʻgrain.

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In fouple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

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

gae

down-hill fcrievin,

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;
Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair,

Wi' gloomy smile.
Aft clad in maffy filler weed,
Wi Gentles thou erects thy beed;

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