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y aback frae urts,

an&039; please thesels wi&039; untry sports,

it wad for ev&039;ry ane be better,

the ird, the tenant, an&039; the tter!

for thae frank, rant, rabl billies,

fet haet o&039; the&039;s ill-hearted fellows;

except for break o&039; their tir,

or speak lightly o&039; their lir,

or shoot of a hare or oor-ck,

the ne&039;er-a-bit they&039;re ill to poor folk,

but will ye tell , aster caesar,

sure great folk&039;s life&039;s a life o&039; pleasure?

nae cauld nor hunr e&039;er can steer the,

the very thought o&039;t need na fear the

caesar

lord, an, were ye but whiles whare i a,

the ntles, ye wad ne&039;er envy the!

it&039;s true, they need na starve or sweat,

thro&039; ter&039;s cauld, or sir&039;s heat:

they&039;ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,

an&039; fill auld a wi&039; grips an&039; granes:

but huan bodies are sic fools,

for a&039; their lles an&039; schools,

that when nae real ills perplex the,

they ak enow thesel&039;s to vex the;

an&039; aye the less they hae to sturt the,

like proportion, less will hurt the

a untry fellow at the pleugh,

his acre&039;s till&039;d, he&039;s right eneugh;

a untry girl at her wheel,

her dizzen&039;s dune, she&039;s un weel;

but ntlen, an&039; dies warst,

wi&039; ev&039;n-down want o&039; wark are curst

they loiter, loungg, nk an&039; zy;

tho&039; deil-haet ails the, yet uneasy;

their days sipid, dull, an&039; tasteless;

their nights uniet, ng, an&039; restless

an&039;ev&039;n their sports, their balls an&039; races,

their gallopg through public pces,

there&039;s sic parade, sic pop, an&039; art,

the joy can scarcely reach the heart

the n cast out party-atches,

then wther a&039; deep debauches

ae night they&039;re ad