« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
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, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ; 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 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 bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan;
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Gie bim strong drink, until be wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire bis bluid
That's prest wi' grief an' care i
Tbere let bim bouse, and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till be forgets his loves or debts,
An' minils bis griefs no more.
SOLMON'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,