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Our laird gets in his rackèd rents,
His coals, his kain and a' his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell;

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse

An' naught 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 an' hunger;
But how it comes I never kenned 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 huffed and cuffed and disrespeckit!
Lord, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;

As lang's my tail, whare through the steeks They gang as saucy by poor fo'k
The yellow lettered Geordie keeks.

Fra morn to e'en it's naught 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, we blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner.
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honor has in a' the lan',

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've noticed 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 staun' 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 nae sae wretched's ane wad think,

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't eneugh, Though constantly on poortith's brink:

A cottar 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,

They're sae accustomed 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;

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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 folks' life a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CÆSAR.

Lord, 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' gripes an' granes;
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them
They make enow themselves to vex them;
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A kintra fellow at the pleugh,
His acres tilled, he's right eneugh;
A kintra lassie at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel;
But gentlemen an' ladies warst
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst;
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy,
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy,
Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless,
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless,
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through 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;
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 pictured beuks,
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie unhanged 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 hummed wi' lazy drone,
The key stood rowtin i' the loan,
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.

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"They told me here, they told me there:
I think they mocked me everywhere;
And when I found his home
And begged him on my bended knee
To bring his book and come with me,
Mother, he would not come.

"I told him how you dying lay And could not go in peace away

Without the minister;

I begged him, for dear Christ his sake, But oh, my heart was fit to break :

Mother, he would not stir.

"So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back fast as fast could be

To come again to you,

And here, close by, this squire I met, Who asked so mild what made me fret;

And when I told him true,

"I will go with you, child,' he said: 'God sends me to this dying-bed.'

Mother, he's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck hung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee
Pressed close his bonny bay;

A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,

Than those stood there that day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms, and in his look
Something that like a sermon-book
Preached, "All is vanity."

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