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Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roafting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first are ftechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' faufe, ragouts, and fic like trashtrie,
That's little fhort 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 paft my comprehenfion.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cæfar, whyles they're fash't enough ;

A cotter howkin in a fheugh,
W dirty ftanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an' fic like,
Himfel, a wife, he thus fuftains,
A fmytre 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,
Ye maift wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun ftarve o' cauld an' hunger:
But how it comes, I never kend yet,
They're maiftly wonderfu' contented;

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

CESAR.

But then, to fee how ye'es negleckit,
How huff'd, an' fcuff'd, an' difrefpeckit!
L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' fic cattle;
They gang as faucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a flinking 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' 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,
They're fae accuftom'd wi' the fight,

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,
They get the jovial ranting Kirns,
When rural life, of every station,
Unite in common recreation;

Love blinks, Wit flaps, an' focial 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' fheds a heart-infpiring fteam;
The luntin pipe, an' fneeshin mill
Are handed down wi' right guid will;
The canty auld folks crackin croufe,
The young anes ranting thro' the house,
My heart has been fae fain to fee them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye hae faid,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd;
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honeft, fawfont folk
Are riven out baith root an' branch,
Some rafcals pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himfel the fafter
In favour wi' fome gentle Mafter,
Wha ablins thrang à parliamentín,
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' 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,
To learn bon ton an' fee the worl'.

There, at Vienna or Verfailles,
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 boufes grumlie German water,
To mak himfel 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:

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
An' please themselves wi' contra fports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,

The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient hate o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breaking o' their timmer,
Or fpeaking lightly o' their Limmer,

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