Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: 
     Then bowses drumlie German-water,
     To mak himsel look fair an’ 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 gear to gang that gate at last?

     O would they stay aback frae courts,
     An’ please themsels wi’ country sports,
     It wad for ev’ry ane be better,
     The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! 
     For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
     Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows;
     Except for breakin o’ their timmer,
     Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer,
     Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
     The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk,

     But will ye tell me, Master Caesar,
     Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? 
     Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
     The very thought o’t need na fear them.

     Caesar

     Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
     The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them!

     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’ grips an’ granes: 
     But human bodies are sic fools,
     For a’ their colleges an’ schools,
     That when nae real ills perplex them,
     They mak enow themsel’s to vex them;
     An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them,
     In like proportion, less will hurt them.

     A country fellow at the pleugh,
     His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
     A country girl at her wheel,
     Her dizzen’s dune, 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’ev’n 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. 
     Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
     Niest day their life is past enduring.

     The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
     As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters;
     But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither,
     They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither. 
     Whiles, owre 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 stackyard,
     An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.