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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 speakin lightly o’their limmer,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock.


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

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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,
That when na real ills perplex them,

They make enow themsels to vex them,

An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less 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, she's unco weel :

But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,

Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curft.

They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy:
Their days infipid, dull, an' tasteless;

Their nights únquiet, 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 scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as fifters;
But hear their absent 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 ;



Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.

THERE's some 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 several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.



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.


LET other Poets raise a fracas

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

An' crabbit names an stories wrack us,

G 3


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