Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or fpeakin lightly o' their Limmer,
Or fhootin o' a hare or moorcock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me,
mafter Cafar,

Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can fteer 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 fweat,
Thro' Winter's cauld, or Simmer's heat;
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 nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themfels to ve them;
An' ay the lefs they hae to flurt them,
In like proportion, lefs will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right energh;
A country girl at her wheel;
Her dizzen's done, fhe's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warft,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curft.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneafy;
Their days infipid, dull, an' tafteless,
Their nights unquiet, lang, and refilefs.
An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places,

There's fic parade, fic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

The Men caft out in party-matches,
'Then fowther a' in deep debauches.
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Nieft day their life is paft enduring.

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as fifters ;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, owre the wee bit
cup an' platie,
They fip the fcandal potion pretty;
Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer's ftackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's fome exceptions, man an' woman;

But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the fun was out o' fight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night:
The bum-clock hummed wi' lazy drone,
The kye flood rowtin i' the loan;
When up they gat an' fhook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs;
An' each took aff his feveral way,
Refolv'd to meet fome ither day.

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him ftrong drink until he wink,
That's finking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's preft wi' grief an' care:

There let him boufe an' deep caroufe,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7′′

LET other Poets raife a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' druken Bacchus,

An' crabbit names an' ftories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I fing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,

In glafs or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink! Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Infpire me, till I lifp an' wink,

To fing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
An' Aits fet up their awnie horn,

An' Pease an' Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain}

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

On fouple fcones, the wale o' food!

Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy ftrong heart's blood,

There thou fhines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,

When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin;

But oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,

Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; Thou ftrings the nerves o' Labour fair,

At's weary toil ;

Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair,

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in maffy, filler weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind, in time o'need,

The poor man's wine;

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the faunts,

By thee infpir'd,

When gaping they befiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in, O fweetly, then, thou reams the horn in! Or reekin on a New-year mornin

In cog or bicker,

An' juft a wee drap fp'ritual burnin,

An' gufly fucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' Ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
O rare! to fee thee fizz an' freath

I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on ke Death

At ev'ry chaup.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or fteel
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel
Brings hard' owrehip, wi' fturdy wheel,

The ftrong forehammer,

Till block an' ftuddie ring an' reel

Wi' dinfome clamour.

When skirlin weanies fee the light,
Thou maks the goffips clatter bright,
How fumbling Cuifs their Dearies flight,

Wae worth the name!

Nae Howdie gets a focial night,

Or plack frae them.

When neebours anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How eafy can the barley-brie

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee

To tafte the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Mufe has reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treafon ! But monie daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter-feafon,

E'er fpeir her price.