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For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows
Except for breaking or their timmer,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock.
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk,
BUT will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
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 sair wark to craze their banesi, An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are fic fools,
'For a'their colleges and schools, That when na real ills perplex them,
They make enow themsels to vex them,
An'ay the less they hae to sturt them,
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warft,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curft.
They loiter, lounging, l'ank, an' lazy;
Their nights únquiet, lang, an' restless,
Their galloping through public places.
Then fowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Nieft day their life is past enduring.
THERE's some exceptions, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o’ fight,
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan;
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,