They waste sae monie 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 countra sports

It wad for ev’ry 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 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 vera thought o’t need na fear them.

CAESAR

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,

The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy ’em.

It’s true, they needna starve or sweat,

Thro winter’s cauld, or summer’s heat;

They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,

An fill auld age wi grips an granes;

But human bodies are sic fools,

For a’ their colleges an schools,

That when nae real ills perplex them,

They mak enow themsels to vex them;

An aye the less they hae to sturt them,

In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A countra fellow at the pleugh,

His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;

A countra girl at her wheel,

Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel;

But gentlemen, an ladies warst,

Wi evn down want o wark are curst.

They loiter, lounging, lank an lazy;

Tho dell-haet ails them, yet uneasy:

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 an whoring,

Niest day their life is past enduring.

The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

As great an gracious a’ as sisters;

But hear their absent thoughts o ither,

They’re a’ run deils and jads the gither.

Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie,

They sip the scandal-potion pretty;

Or lee-lang nights, wi crabbit leuks

Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;

Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,

An cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard.

There’s some exceptions, man an woman:

But this is Gentry’s life in common.

By this, the sun was out o sight,

An darker gloamin brought the night;

The bum-clock humm’d wi lazy drone;

The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan;

When up they gat an shook their lugs,

Rejoic’d they were na men but dogs;

An each took aff his several way,

Resolv’d to meet some ither day.

HALLOWEEN

Yes! let the Rich deride, the Proud disdain,

The simple pleasures of the lowly train:

To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

– GOLDSMITH

Upon that night, when fairies light

On Cassilis Downans dance,

Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,