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,
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.
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ;
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;
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 ;
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
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.
A! where ye gaun, ye crawlin' ferlie ?
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely
Owre gauze and lace;
Though faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunned, by saunt and sinner,
How dare you set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady ?
Gae somewhere else, and seek your
On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now haud you there, ye 're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye 've got on it,
The very tapmost, towering height
O' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and gray as ony grozet;
Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum !
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o''t,
Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's flannen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie!
How daur ye do 't?
Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
And set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie 's makin'!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!
Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel's as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion :
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,
And even devotion!
"For sense they little owe to frugal Heaven To please the mob, they hide the little given."
KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge and claw,
And pour your creeshie nations;
And ye wha leather rax and draw,
O' a' denominations,
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an a',
And there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,
And pour divine libations
For joy this day.
Curst Common Sense, that imp o' h—,
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
And Russell sair misca'd her;
This day Mackinlay taks the flail,
And he's the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her tail,
And set the bairns to daud her
Wi' dirt this day.
Mak haste and turn King David owre,
And lilt wi' holy clangor;
O' double verse come gie us four,
And skirl up the Bangor :
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her power,
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