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THEY'RE nae sae wretched's ane wad think;
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided;
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,
An ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hollowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
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 luntin pipe, an' sneefhin mill,
heart has been fo fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit'wi' them.
STILL is't owre. true that ye hae said,
game is now owre aften play'l..
There's monie a creditable stock
O'decent, honest fawfont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch;
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster.
In favour wi? some gentle Master,
HAITH, Lad, ye little ken about it:
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
To mak a tour; an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton an' see the world,
THERE, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles;
L U A T H.
Hech man ! dear firs! is that the gate
They waste fae mony a braw estate!
O WOULD they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themsels wi' countra Sports,