For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
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 muircock,
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 vera 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,
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes;
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themsels to vex them;
An' aye 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 done, she's unco weel:
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' even-down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ;
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless.
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, 211
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' 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 an' w-ing,
Neist 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 an' jads thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's picture-beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloamin' brought the night:
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin' ï' the loan;
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
'Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief an' care;
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.'
SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, xxxi. 6, 7.
1 LET other Poets raise a fracas
'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus,
An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,
An' grate our lug,
I sing the juice Scotch beare can mak us,
In glass or jug.
20 thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink; Whether through wimpling worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!
3 Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain !
4 On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood,
Wi' kail an' beef;
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.
5 Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
Though life's a gift no worth receivin',
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin';
But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae downhill, scrievin',
Wi' rattlin' glee.
6 Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;
Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.
7 Aft, clad in massy silver 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.
8 Thou art the life o' public haunts ;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Even godly meetings o' the saunts,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.
9 That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reckin' on a New-year mornin',
In cog or bicker,
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!
10 When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
Oh rare to see thee fizz an' freath
I' th' lugget cap!
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chap.
11 Nae mercy then for airn or steel,
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block and studdie ring and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour.
12 When skirlin' weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
13 When neebours anger at a plea, An' just as wud as wud can be, How easy can the barley bree
Cement the quarrel!
the cheapest lawyer's fee
To taste the barrel.
14 Alake that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
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