Caesar

I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have; An’ when the gentry’s life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava. Our Laird gets in his rackèd rents, His coals, his kain, and a’ his stents; He rises when he likes himsel’; His flunkies answer at the bell: He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; He draws a bonny silken purse As lang’s my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow-letter’d Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; And though the gentry first are stechin’, Yet e’en the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner! Poor worthless elf! it eats a dinner Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a’ the lan’; An’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it’s past my comprehension.