"See stern oppression's iron grip, Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide: And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, A creature of another kind,

11

He was a gash 10 an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt 12 face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gaucie 13 tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies 1 wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain' o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit:
Whyles mice an' moudieworts 15 they how-

16

kit; Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin 17 weary grown, Upon a knowe 18 they sat them down And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation.

3

young fellow

6 cannot accom

cur

4 fool

6 smithy

& above

plish ' prize

with matted hair

8 cur ⚫ ragged 10 wise

11 ditch

12 white-streaked 13 big and joyous 14 haunches

15 moles 16 digged 17 larking 18 knoll

An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash,31
He'll stamp and threaten, curse an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
And hear it a', an' fear an' tremble:

I see how folk live that hae riches:
But surely poor folk maun be wretches?

Luath

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think Tho' constantly on poortith's brink; They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. They're aye in less or mair provided; An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans 32 an' faithfu' wives:
The prattling things are just their pride
That sweetens a' their fire-side;
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 38
Can mak the bodies unco happy;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
An' ferlie 34 at the folk in Lon❜on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,35
When rural life, o' ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin 30 pipe, an' sneeshin mill,37
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,3
38
The young anes rantin thro' the house,--
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

36

O' decent, honest, fawsont 39 folk
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favor wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins,40 thrang a parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'-
Caesar

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An' saying ay or no's they bid him
At operas 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' see the worl'.

There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the route,
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowte; 41
Or down Italian vista startles,
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly 42 German water,
To mak himsel look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!-for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction!

Luath

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd
43 to gang that gate

at last!

For gear
O would they stay aback frae Courts,
An' please themsels wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin' ramblin' billies,
Fient haet 45 o' them 's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer,46
Or shootin' o' a hare or moorcock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will you tell me, Master Caesar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't needna fear them.
Caesar

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I

The gentles, ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true they needna starve nor 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' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A countra fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A countra girl at her wheel,
Her dizzens 47 done, she's unco weel:
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless;
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places,
There's sic parade, sie pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

The men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther48 a' in deep debauches;
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink and
whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.

The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip 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 exception, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.