Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fasht25
eneugh;

A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an' sic like;
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie 26 o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' darg,27 to keep
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape.28

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger:
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented:
And buirdly chiels,29 an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Caesar

But, then, to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespekit!
L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinkin' brock.30
I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day,

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 33
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.

35

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,3
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 36 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.

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'.

46

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,"
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.

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, sic 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.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Makes high and low guid friends, man;
And he wha acis the traitor's part
It to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o' the deil,
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man,

How weel it buds and blossoms there, Its branches spreading wide, man.