Caesar

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!