Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
     And unco pack an’ thick thegither;
     Wi’ social nose whiles snuff’d an’ snowkit;
     Whiles mice an’ moudieworts they howkit;
     Whiles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion,
     An’ worry’d ither in diversion;
     Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown
     Upon a knowe they set them down. 
     An’ there began a lang digression. 
     About the “lords o’ the creation.”

     Caesar

     I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,
     What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;
     An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,
     What way poor bodies liv’d ava.

     Our laird gets in his racked rents,
     His coals, his kane, an’ 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 bonie silken purse,
     As lang’s my tail, where, thro’ the steeks,
     The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.

     Frae morn to e’en, it’s nought but toiling
     At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
     An’ tho’ the gentry first are stechin,
     Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan
     Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an’ sic like trashtrie,
     That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. 
     Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
     Poor, worthless elf, it 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, Caesar, whiles they’re fash’t eneugh: 
     A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
     Wi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
     Baring a quarry, an’ sic like;
     Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains,
     A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,
     An’ nought but his han’-daurk, to keep
     Them right an’ 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 kent yet,
     They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
     An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,
     Are bred in sic a way as this is.

     Caesar

     But then to see how ye’re negleckit,
     How huff’d, an’ cuff’d, an’ disrespeckit! 
     Lord man, our gentry care as little
     For delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;
     They gang as saucy by poor folk,
     As I wad by a stinkin 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!