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yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.

      Frae morn to e’en its nought but toiling,

      At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;

      An’ though the gentry first are stechin,

      Yet even the ha’ folk fill their pechan

      Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,

      That’s little short o’ downright wastrie.

      Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,

      Poor worthless elf, eats a dinner,

      Better than ony tenant man

      His honour has in a’ the lan’;

      An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,

      I own it’s past my comprehension.

      Luath.

      Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they’re fash’t eneugh

      A cotter howkin in a sheugh,

      Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke,

      Baring a quarry, and sic like;

      Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,

      A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,

      An’ nought but his han’ darg, to keep

      Them right and tight in thack an’ rape.

      An’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,

      Like loss o’ 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 kenn’d yet,

      They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented:

      An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,

      Are bred in sic a way as this is.

      Cæsar.

      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 folk,

      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;

      While they maun stan’, wi’ aspect humble,

      An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!

      I see how folk live that hae riches;

      But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

      Luath.

      They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think;

      Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink:

      They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,

      The view o’t gies them little fright.

      Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided,

      They’re ay in less or mair provided;

      An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,

      A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.

      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

      Can mak’ the bodies unco happy;

      They lay aside their private cares,

      To mind the Kirk and State affairs:

      They’ll talk o’ patronage and priests;

      Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts;

      Or tell what new taxation’s comin’,

      And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.

      As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,

      They get the jovial, ranting kirns,

      When rural life, o’ ev’ry station,

      Unite in common recreation;

      Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth

      Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.

      That merry day the year begins,

      They bar the door on frosty win’s;

      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 anes rantin’ thro’ the house,—

      My heart has been sae fain to see them,

      That I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.

      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

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