As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,
The yellow lettered Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
And though the gentry first are stechin,
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic-like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan kitchen-people, stomach
Our whipper-in, wee STUPID Wonner,*
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner
And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
Better than ony tenant man
His honour has i' a' the lan';
I own it's past my comprehension,
troubled digging, trench building, wall fencing
Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough ;
A cotter howkin' in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,
Barring a quarry, and sic-like:
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
And nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack and rape.
And when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer.
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger;
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented:
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huffed, and cuffed, and disrespeckit!
DEED, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin' brock.
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,
And mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi aspect humble,
And hear it a', and fear and tremble!
* A person residing in the place.
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches!
They're no sae wretched's ane wad think
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
And though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fireside;
And whyles twalpenny 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 and priests,
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, rantin 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,
Are handed round wi' right guidwill;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, cheerful, talking briskly
The young anes rantin' through the house-
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'
Twelve pence Scotch is equal to one penny sterling.
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;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter.
For Britain's guid!-for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction.
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten and harrassed
For gear to gang that gate at last!
Oh would they stay aback frae courts,
And please themsels wi' country sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', rambling' billies,
NAE haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
EXCEPT FOR Shootin' hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to
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 need na fear them.
Man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy '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 make anow themsels 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 acres 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 NAE 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 PROCURING,
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 WILD 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 ower 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 humm'd 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.
HA! 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
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
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'rel's, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,
The very tapmost, towering height
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 FEARFU' speed
The beastie's makin'?
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!
Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,
And even devotion !
perhaps, ragged
under vest
|