• Trae morn to e'er it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev’n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi’ sause, ragouts, and fic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright waftris.
Our Whipper-in, wee blaitit wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man
His Honor has in a'the lan';
An' what poor cot-folk pit their paunch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.

L U A T H. Trowth, Cæfar, whyles they're falh't enough ; A cotter liowkin in a fheugh, W' dirty ftanes biggin a dyke, Paring a quarry, au' fic like, Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytre o' wee duddie weans, An'nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right an' tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' fair disasters,
Like lofs o' health or want o'masters,
A Ye maift wad think, a wee touch langer,

An' they maun farve o cauld an hunger:
But how it comes, I never kend yet,
They're mailtly wonderfu' contented ;

An' bu'rd'y chiels, an clever kizzics,
Are bred in fic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then, to see how ye’es negleckit,
How huff'd, an' scuff'd, an' disrespeckit!
L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' fc cattle ;
They gang as faucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a sinking brock.

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my

heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, fcant o' cash, tlow they maun thole a factor's fnafh; He'll ftamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun itan', wi' aspe&t humble, An' hear it a', an fear and tremble !

I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches !

L U A T H. They're no fae wretched ane wad think ; Tho' constantly on poortith’s brink, They're sae accustom'd wi' the fight, The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're ay in less or mair provided ;
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment,
A blink o'relt's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort of their lives, Their grushíe' weans and faithfu' wives ; The pratling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side.

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and late affairs ;
They'll talk o' påtronage an' priests,
Wi' kindling fury i their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin;
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial ranting Kirns,
When rural life, of every station,
Unite in common recreation ;
Love blinks, Wit flaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty-wins ;

The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' foeeshin mill
Are handed down wi' right guid will ;
The canty auld folks crackin crouse,
The

young anes ranting thro' the house,
My heart has been fae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic
game

is now owre aften play'd;
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honeft, fawsont folk
Are riven out baith root an’ branch,
Some rascals pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the fafter
In favour wi' some gentle Master,
Wha ablins thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his faul indentin-

CÆSAR.
Haith, lad, ye little kin about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An' saying aye or no’s they bid hit :
At Opera's an' Plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading :
Or maybe, in a frolic daft
To Hage or Calais taks a waft,

BA

To mak a tour an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.

There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guittars an fecht wi' nowt ; Or down Italian Vifta ftartles, Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles; Then bouses grumlie German water, To mak himsel look fair and fatter, An' clear the confequential forrows Love-gifts of carnival Signioras.

For Britain's guid! for her destruction !
Wi' diffipation, feud an' faction :

L U A T H. Hech man! dear firs! is that the gate They waste fae mony a braw estate ! Are we sae foughten and barrass’d For gear to gang that gate at lail!.

O would they stay aback frae courts An' please themselves wi' contra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! For thac frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient hate o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breaking o' their timmer, Or speaking lightly o' their Limmer,