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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 fpeakin lightly otheir 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' pleasure ;
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them,

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";
VOL, I,

C

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,
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 warft,

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

They loiter, lounging, l'ank, 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 fowther a' in deep debauches;

Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,

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Nieft 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 ;

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

By this, the sun was out o’ fight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night:
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;

The kye stood rowtin i' the loan;

When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An'each took aff his several way,
Refoly'd to meet some ither day.

SCOTEH

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

An' crabbit names an stories wrack us,

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