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 may be, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To make a tour, and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an' 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' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles:
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel look fair and fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!—for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate?
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last?
O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' countra sports, It wad for every ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient haet o' them 's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breaking o' their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they 're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, master Cæsar,
Sure great folks' life's a life o' pleasure!
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o 't need na fear them.
L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true, they need na starve or sweat
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their baues,
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 mak enow themselves to vex them;
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them;
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she 's unco weel:
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy;
Tho deil haet hails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless;
An' ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races,
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' wh-ring,
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 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 pictured beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie 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 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;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.
DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.
SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd :
Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times, to vend,
And nail 't wi' Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the deil 's in hell,
That e'er he nearer comes oursel
'S a muckle pity.
The Clachan yill had made me canty;
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, stanes,
and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches.
The rising moon began to glower
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre;
To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four,
I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Though leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.
I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-taed leister on the ither
Lay, large an' lang.
Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava;
And then, its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma',
As cheeks o' branks.
'Guid-een,' quo' I; Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?'1
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',
But naething spak;
At length, says I, Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back?'
It spak right howe,- My name is Death,
But be na fley'd.'-Quoth I, 'Guid faith,
Ye 're maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,
See, there's a gully!'
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