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, 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!