Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on.
As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life o' every station
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam :
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin-mill, smoking-snuff-box Are handed round wi' right guidwill;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, talking briskly The young anes rantin' through the
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 played.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins thrang 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,
And saying Ay or No's they bid him:
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, and see the worl.
There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails ;
Or by Madrid he takes the route,
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowte;
Or down Italian vista startles,
W
hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten and harassed
For gear to gang that gate at last!
Oh would they stay aback frae courts,
And please themsel's wi' country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moorcock,
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 or hunger e'er can steer them,
The very thought o't needna fear them.
L—, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envý 'em.
It's true they needna starve or sweat,
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes;
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel's to vex them;
And aye the less they hae to sturt them, molest
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's tilled, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst,
Wi' even-down want o' wark are curst. downright They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; nothing Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless.
And e'en their sports, their balls and races,
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp and 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 and w-ing,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters; intimate
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils and jads thegither.
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
And cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There's some exception, man and woman;
But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' sight,
And darker gloaming brought the night:
The bum-clock hummed wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan; lowing—milking-yard
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, ear's
Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH.
HA! where ye gaun, ye crawlin' ferlie? wonder Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace;
|