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THEY'RE nae sae wretched's ane wad think;
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink;
They're fae accustom’d 'wi' the fight,
The view o't, gies them little fright:

Then chance an’ fortune are fàe guided;
They'rs ay in less or mair provided;
An' tho? fatigu'd wi' close employment;
A blink o rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives,

Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ;.

The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-fide.

AN' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy

Can mak the bodies unco happy ;.


They lay aside their private cares,

To mind the Kirk and State affairs :

They'll talk o'patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling füry in their breasts,

Or tell what new taxation's comin,

An ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hollowmas returns,

They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation ;
Love blinks, Wit flaps, an' social Mirth,
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' leds a heart-inspiring steam;


The Tuntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,-
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks, crackin crouse,

The young anes-rantin thro' the house,

My heart has been so fain to see them,

That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

STILL is't owre. true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd.. There's monie a creditable stock

o decent, honest fawsont folk,

Are riven out baith root and brancli,

Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quenchy

Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster.

In favour wi' fome gentle Master,

Wha, ablins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his soul indentin



HAITH, Lad, ye little ken about it:

For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An'laying aye or no's they bid him;
Àt operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or may be in a frolic daft,

To Hague or Calais takes 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 rout,
'To thrum guitars, and fetch'd ni' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,


Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles ;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel look fair and fatter,
An'clear the confequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid! for her destruction!
Wi' diffipation, feud, an' faction.

L U A T H.

Hech man ! dear firs! is that the gate

They waste fae mony a braw estate"!

Are we fae foughten an' harass'd

For gear to gang that gate at last !

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, an' the Cotter!


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