Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, His Honor has in a' the lan'; An' what poor cot-folk pit their paunch in, I own it's paft my comprehenfion. LUATH. Trowth, Cæfar, whyles they're fash't enough ; A cotter howkin in a fheugh, An' when they meet wi' fair disasters, An' bu'rd'y chiels, an clever hizzies, CESAR. But then, to fee how ye'es negleckit, I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, fcant o' cafh, How they maun thole a factor's fnafh; He'll ftamp an' threaten, curle an' fwear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; While they maun ftan', wi' afpe&t humble, An' hear it a', an fear and tremble! I fee how folk live that hae riches; But furely poor folk maun be wretches! LUATH. They're no fae wretched ane wad think; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance and fortune are fae guided, They're ay in lefs or mair provided; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a fweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grufhie weans and faithfu' wives; The pratling things are juft their pride, That fweetens a' their fire-fide. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay afide their private cares, To mind the Kirk and ftate affairs; They'll talk o' patronage an' priefts, Wi' kindling fury i' their breafts, Or tell what new taxation's comin, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on. As bleak fac'd Hallowmas returns, Love blinks, Wit flaps, an' focial Mirth That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty-wins; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, Still it's owre true that ye hae faid, 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' faying aye or no's they bid him: At Opera's an' Plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or maybe, in a frolic daft To Hague or Calais taks a waft, To mak a tour an' tak a whirl, There, at Vienna or Verfailles, For Britain's guid! for her destruction ! LUATH. Hech man! dear firs! is that the gate They wafte fae mony a braw eftate! Are we fae foughten and harrass'd For gear to gang that gate at lail! . O would they stay aback frae courts The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! |