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 gives them little fright.

     Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
     They’re aye in less or mair provided: 
     An’ tho’ fatigued 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’ whiles 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 an’ priests,
     Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,
     Or tell what new taxation’s comin,
     An’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.

     As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns,
     They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
     When rural life, of 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 mony a creditable stock
     O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
     Are riven out baith root an’ 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—­

     Caesar

     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 ay or no’s they bid him: 
     At operas an’ plays parading,
     Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: 
     Or maybe, 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,