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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.

      It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,

      Thro’ winters 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 mak 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 girl 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 and 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 pictur’d beuks;

      Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard,

      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,

      Rejoic’d they were na men, but dogs;

      An’ each took aff his several way,

      Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

      LXVIII. LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER

      [“The first time I saw Robert Burns,” says Dugald Stewart, “was on the 23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his work was known to the public.” Basil, Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1769, at the family seat of St. Mary’s Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.]

      This wot ye all whom it concerns,

      I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

      October twenty-third,

      A ne’er-to-be-forgotten day,

      Sae far I sprachled up the brae,

      I dinner’d wi’ a Lord.

      I’ve been at druken writers’ feasts,

      Nay, been bitch-fou’ ‘mang godly priests,

      Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken:

      I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum,

      When mighty squireships of the quorum

      Their hydra drouth did sloken.

      But wi’ a Lord—stand out, my shin!

      A Lord—a Peer—an Earl’s son!—

      Up higher yet, my bonnet!

      And sic a Lord!—lang Scotch ells twa,

      Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’,

      As I look o’er my sonnet.

      But, oh! for Hogarth’s magic pow’r!

      To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r,

      And how he star’d and stammer’d,

      When goavan, as if led wi’ branks,

      An’ stumpan on his ploughman shanks,

      He in the parlour hammer’d.

      I sidling shelter’d in a nook,

      An’ at his lordship steal’t a look,

      Like some portentous omen;

      Except good sense and social glee,

      An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty,

      I marked nought uncommon.

      I watch’d the symptoms o’ the great,

      The gentle pride, the lordly state,

      The arrogant assuming;

      The fient a pride, nae pride had he,

      Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

      Mair than an honest ploughman.

      Then from his lordship I shall learn,

      Henceforth to meet with unconcern

      One rank as weel’s another;

      Nae honest worthy man need care

      To

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