Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain’s gude!—guid faith! I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, And saying ay or no’s they bid him! At operas and plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading. Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais taks a waft, To make 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 and fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles; Then bouses drumly German water, To make himsel’ look fair and fatter, And clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain’s gude!—for her destruction! Wi’ dissipation, feud, and faction! LUATH Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten and harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themselves wi’ country sports, It wad for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies, Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows: Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer, Or speaking lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin’ o’ 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 needna fear them. CAESAR