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Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash; b
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!

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They're no sae wretched 's ane wad think.
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink,
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided :
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.

An' whiles twalpennie worth o' nappy1
Can mak the bodies unco happy :
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,
Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin,
An' ferlies at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,h
When rural life, of ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation;

Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.


c sequestrate.

8 marvel.


poverty. harvest-homes,


That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,"
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantied auld folks crackin crouse,*
The young anes rantin thro' the house-
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd;
There's mony a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont' folk,
Are riven out baith root an' branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins thrange a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin-



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it :
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him :
An' saying ay or no 's they bid him:
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading :
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,

To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'.

There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars an' fecht wi' nowt;'

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Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To mak himsel look fair an' fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.

For Britain's guid! for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud an' faction.


Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last?


O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' country sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin of 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 steerd them, The very thought o't need na fear them.


L-d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them! It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat: They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:*

• troubled.

d disturb.

b wealth.

⚫ not a bit. groans.

But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges an' schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel's to vex them;
An' aye
the less they hae to sturta 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 dune, she's unco weel;°
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy ;
Tho' deil-haetd ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless.

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowthere a' in deep debauches.
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Neist day their life is past enduring.

The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run-deils an' jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang1 nights, wi crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There's some exceptions, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.

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By this, the sun was out of sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock a humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;
When up they gat an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

The Author's Earnest cry and Prayer.1

To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch
Representatives in the House of Commons.2

Dearest of distillation! last and best

-How art thou lost !—


YE Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

Το you a simple poet's pray'rs

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupit muse is hearse!'

Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her arse

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