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A rhyming, ranting, raving billie;
He was a gain an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a fheugh or dyke,
His honest, fonfie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
Weel clad wi' coat o' glofly black;
Nac doubt but they were fain o'ither, An' unco pack an' thick the gither;
# Cuchulling's dog in-Ossian's Fingal.
Wi' social nore whyles snuff d an' snowkit,
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they fat them down,
About the lord's o'tbe creation.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What fort o' life poor dogs like you have;
Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : He rifes when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonie filken purse,
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks,
FRAE morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting frying, boiling ; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet e’en thie ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright waftrie. Our Whipper-in, wee blaftit wonner, Poor. worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man
His honour has in a the lan':
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch ing.. I own it's past.my comprehension.
TROTH, Cesar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cottar howkin in a fheugh,
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, i A smytrie o' wee duddie weaos,
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
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 and hunger:
Are bred in fic a way as this is.
BUT then see how ye're negleckit,
L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' fic cattle;
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,
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ?