_Sir Will._ And aften vain and idly spend their time, 'Till grown unfit for action, past their prime, Hang on their friends--which gi'es their sauls a cast, That turns them downright beggars at the last. _Sym._ Now well I wat, Sir, ye have spoken true; For there's laird Kytie's son, that's loo'd by few: His father steght his fortune in his wame, And left his heir nought but a gentle name. He gangs about sornan frae place to place, As scrimp of manners, as of sense and grace; Oppressing all as punishment of their sin, That are within his tenth degree of kin: Rins in ilk trader's debt, wha's sae unjust To his ain fam'ly, as to give him trust. _Sir Will._ Such useless branches of a common-wealth, Should be lopt off, to give a state mair health. Unworthy bare reflection.--Symon, run O'er all your observations on my son; A parent's fondness easily finds excuse: But do not with indulgence truth abuse. _Sym._ To speak his praise, the langest simmer day Wad be o'er short,--cou'd I them right display. In word and deed he can sae well behave, That out of sight he runs before the lave; And when there's e'er a quarrel or contest, Patrick's made judge to tell whase cause is best; And his decreet stands good;--he'll gar it stand: Wha dares to grumble, finds his correcting hand; With a firm look, and a commanding way, He gars the proudest of our herds obey. _Sir Will._ Your tale much pleases;--my good friend, proceed: What learning has he? Can he write and read? _Sym._ Baith wonder well; for, troth, I didna spare To gi'e him at the school enough of lair; And he delites in books:--He reads, and speaks With fowks that ken them, Latin words and Greeks. _Sir Will._ Where gets he books to read?--and of what kind? Tho' some give light, some blindly lead the blind. _Sym._ Whene'er he drives our sheep to Edinburgh port, He buys some books of history, sangs or sport: Nor does he want of them a rowth at will, And carries ay a poutchfu' to the hill. About ane Shakspear, and a famous Ben, He aften speaks, and ca's them best of men. How sweetly Hawthrenden and Stirling sing, } And ane ca'd Cowley, loyal to his king, } He kens fu' well, and gars their verses ring. } I sometimes thought he made o'er great a frase, About fine poems, histories and plays. When I reprov'd him anes,--a book he brings, With this, quoth he, on braes I crack with kings. _Sir Will._ He answer'd well; and much ye glad my ear, When such accounts I of my shepherd hear. Reading such books can raise a peasant's mind Above a lord's that is not thus inclin'd. _Sym._ What ken we better, that sae sindle look, Except on rainy Sundays, on a book; When we a leaf or twa haff read haff spell, 'Till a' the rest sleep round as well's our sell?