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For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breaking o' their timmer,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk,
But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o pleafare ; Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.
L-D, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
IT's true, they need na ftarve or sweat,
Tho' winter's cauld, or fimmer's heat;
They've They've nae fair wark to craze their banes);
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are fic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
They make enow themsels to vex them,
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curft.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Their nights únquiet, lang, an' restless,
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
THERE's some exceptions, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the fun was out o' fight,
Gie bim strong drink, until be wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquar guid to fire bis bluid
Tbat's prest wi' grief an' care ;
There let bim bouse, and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till be forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds bis griefs no more.
SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6 7.
LET other Poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an stories wrack us,