Still it’s owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play’d.
There’s monie a creditable stock
O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
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’—
CÆSAR.
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 mak a tour, an’ 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 rout,
To thrum guitars, an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh—re-hunting amang 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.
LUATH.
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 themsels wi’ countra sports,
It wad for ev’ry 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 breakin’ 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 folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
Nae cauld or hunger e’er can steer them,
The vera thought o’t need na fear them.
CÆSAR.
L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ‘em.