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For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,

Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breaking o' their timmer,

Or fpeakin lightly o' their limmer,

Or fhootin o' a hare or moor-cock.

The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.

BUT will ye tell me, Mafter Caesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ; Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can feer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

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;

VOL, I.

C

They've

1

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,

That when na real ills perplex them,

They make enow themfels to vex them,
An' ay the lefs they hae to fturt them,
In like proportion lefs will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,

His acre's till'd he's right enough;
A country girl at her wheel,

Her dizzen's done, fhe's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warft,

Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curft.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneafy :
Their days infipid, dull, an' taftelefs;

Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless,

An' even their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through public places.
There's fic parade, fic pomp, an' art,

The joy can fcarcely reach the heart.
The men caft out in party matches,

Then fowther a' in deep debauches;

Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, Nieft day their life is paft enduring.

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

As great and gracious a' as fifters;
But hear their abfent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jats thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They fip the the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;

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Stake on a chance a farmer's ftackyard,

An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.

THERE'S fome exceptions, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common.

By this, the fun was out o' fight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night:
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye ftood rowtin i' the loan;

When up they gat, and fhook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An' each took aff his feveral way,

Refolv'd to meet fome ither day.

SCOTCH

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie bim strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;

An' liquar guid to fire bis bluid

That's prest wi' grief an' care;

There let him 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 raife a fracas.

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,

An' crabbit names an' ftories wrack us,

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