They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The dearest comfort o' their lives, An' whyles twalpennie 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 of patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's coming, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Still its owre true that ye hae said, ノ Wha' aiblins, thrang a parliamentiu, CESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; * To Hague or Calais takes a waft, For Britain's guid!' for her destruction Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate O would they stay aback frae courts, But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, CESAR. Ld, 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, Thro' 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' 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 lassy at her wheel, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless: Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; An' even their sports, their balls, an' races, Their galloping thro' 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;" Oer lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, By this, the sun was out o' sight, SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs uo more. Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 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 Scots bear can mak us, In glass or jug. thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink; Whether thro' 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! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, Perfume the plain, Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Thou king o' grain! On the aft Scotland chows her cood, Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin; But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' li gae down-hill, scrievin, Wi' rattlin glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; At's weary toil; Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, The poor man's wine, His wee-drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. Thou art the life o' public haunts; By thee inspir'd, "When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in, sweetly then thou reams the horn in, |