Or tell what new taxation's comin,
An' ferlie at the folk in LON'ON.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmafs returns, They get the jovial, rantan Kirns, When rural life, of ev'ry ftation, Unite in common recreation;

Love blinks, Wit flaps, an' focial Mirth Forgets there's care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frofty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' fheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntan pipe, an' fneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie, auld folks, crackan croufe, The

young anes rantan thro' the houseMy heart has been fae fain to fee them, That I for joy hae barket wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye hae faid,. Sic game is now owre aften play'd;

There's monie a creditable ftock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an' branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himfel the faster
In favor wi' some gentle Mafter,
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his faul indentin-

CESAR.

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 aye 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 make a tour an' tak a whirl,

To learn bon ton and see the worl'.

There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES, He rives his father's auld entails B

;

Or by MADRID he takes the rout,
To thrum guittars an' fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian Vifta startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:
Then bowfes drumlie German-water,
To mak himfel look fair and fatter,
An' purge the bitter ga's an' cankers,
O' curft Venetian b-res an' ch-ncres.

For Britain's guid! for her deftruction!
Wi' diffipation, feud, an' faction!

LUAT H.

Hech man! dear firs! is that the gate,

They waste fae mony a braw eftate!
Are we fae foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themsels wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies,
Fient haet o' them 's ill hearted fellows;

Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o' their Limmer,
Or fhootin of a hare or moorcock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, master Cæfar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

L-d man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad neer envy them!

It's true, they need na ftarve or fweat,
Thro' Winter's cauld, or Summer'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 colledges an' fchools,

That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themfels to vex them;

An' ay the less they hae to fturt 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 done, fhe's unco weel;
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
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' tasteless,
Their nights, unquiet, lang an' restless.

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.