CESAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, Our Laird gets in his racked rents, He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, His Honour has in a' the lan': An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough; A cottar howkin in a sheug, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, An' when then meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss of health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. CESAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L-d man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic❜d on our Laird's court-day, An' 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 an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; tide they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, par it a', an' fear an' tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches? LUATH. They're nae sac wretched's ane wad think, Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side. An whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam'; The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young ancs rantin thro' the house,My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still its owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' descent, 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 CÆSAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To learn bon ton an' see the worl'. There, at Vienna or Versailles To thrum guitars, and fetch wi’nowt; Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles: For Britain's guid! for her detruction! LUATH. Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate O would they stay aback frac courts, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! But will ye tell me, Master Casar, 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. |