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A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel :,', '14 But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o'wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Tho' deil haet hails then, yet uneasy is'. 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 and wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o'ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore o'er the devil's pictur'd beuks ; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard,
There's some exception, man an' woman. But this is Gentry's life in common,
By this, the sun was out o' sight,
The bum-clock humud wi' lazy drone;
up they gat, and shook their lugs," }, ,... Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs ; An' each took aff his several
Way, Resolvd to meet some ither day.
Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair ;
That's prest wi' grief an' care ;
Wi' bumpers flowin o'er,
SOLOMON'S PROVERBS, Xxxi. 6, 7
Let other Poets raiste a fracas,
An' grate our lug,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drinks Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
In glorious faem, Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,
Perfume the plain,
Thou king o' grains
On thiee aft Scotland chows her cood,
Wi' kail an' beef;
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin;
But, oil'd by thee,
Wi' rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head o' doited Lear; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil ; Thou even brightens dark Despair,
Wi' gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy silver weed, Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind in time o' need,
The poor man's wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o' public haunts;
By thee inspir'd,
When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn in, O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! Or reekin on a New-year morning
In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty. sucker !
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith,. O rare! to see thee fizz an' freath,
I'th' lugget caup! Then Burnewin* comes on like death
At ev'ry chaup.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, pleugluman chiel, Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour,
When skirlin' weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name! Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them. * Burnewin-Burn-the-wind-the blacksmith--an appropriate title.