But then, to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit, Lord, man! our gentry care sae little For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk 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 and threaten, curse and swear, He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear: While they maun stan’, 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 no’ sae wretched’s ane wad think, Though constantly on poortith’s brink: They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, The view o’t gi’es them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They’re aye in less or mair provided; An’ though 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 fireside. And whyles twalpenny-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 and priests, Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation’s comin’, And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns They get the jovial rantin’ kirns, When rural life o’ every station Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, and 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, And sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin’ pipe and sneeshin’-mill Are handed round wi’ right gude-will; The canty auld folk crackin’ crouse, The young anes ranting through 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 and 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 gude his saul indentin— CAESAR