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• Trae morn to e'er it's nought but toiling,
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,
An' they maun farve o cauld an hunger:
An' bu'rd'y chiels, an clever kizzics,
But then, to see 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' 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;
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,
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
As bleak fac'd Hallowmas returns,
That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty-wins ;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
young anes ranting thro' the house,
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
is now owre aften play'd;
To mak a tour an' tak a whirl,
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 !
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,