Luath

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten and harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themselves wi’ country sports, It wad for every 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 speaking lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin’ o’ 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 very thought o’t needna fear them.