CÆSAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day— I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches! LUATH. 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 ay 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 fireside. An' whiles twalpennie worth o' nappy 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' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, rantin kirns, 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. 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 cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' thro' the houseMy heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's ower true that ye hae said, Sic game is now ower 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 thrang a parliamentin', CESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it. To Hague or Calais takes a waft, For Britain's guid!-for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. LUATH. 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? Oh, would they stay aback frae courts, The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! CESAR. It's true, they needna 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: 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' 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 eneugh; 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; The joy can scarcely reach the heart. Then sowther a' in deep debauches. Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' swearing, The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; |