The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

they maun thole a Factor’s snash:3 would suffer, abuse

      He’ll stamp an’ threaten, curse an’ swear

      He’ll apprehend them, poind their gear; seize & sell their goods

      While they maun staun’, wi’ aspect humble, must stand

      100 An’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble! all

      I see how folk live that hae riches; have

      But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! must

      LUATH

      They’re nae sae wretched’s ane wad think: not so, as one would

      Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, poverty’s

      105 They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, so

      The view o’t gies them little fright. gives

      Then chance an’ fortune are sae guided, so

      They’re ay in less or mair provided; always, more

      An’ tho’ fatigu’d wi’ close employment,

      110 A blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.

      The dearest comfort o’ their lives,

      Their grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives; thriving children

      The prattling things are just their pride,

      That sweetens a’ their fire-side.

      115 An’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy sometimes, ale

      Can mak the bodies unco happy: folk, very

      They lay aside their private cares,

      To mind the Kirk an’ State affairs;

      They’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,

      120 Wi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,

      Or tell what new taxation’s comin,

      An’ ferlie at the folk in LON’ON. wonder

      As bleak-fac’d Hallowmass returns, festival of All-Saints

      They get the jovial, rantan Kirns, harvest homes

      125 When rural life, of ev’ry station,

      Unite in common recreation;

      Love blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth

      Forgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.

      That merry day the year begins,

      130 They bar the door on frosty win’s; winds

      The nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream, ale, foaming froth

      An’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;

      The luntan pipe, an’ sneeshin mill, smoking, snuff box

      Are handed round wi’ right guid will; good

      135 The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse, jolly old, chatting, cheerful

      The young anes rantan thro’ the house — one, running

      My heart has been sae fain to see them, so content

      That I for joy hae barket wi’ them. have barked

      Still it’s owre true that ye hae said over, have

      140 Sic game is now owre aften play’d; such a, over often

      There’s monie a creditable stock many

      O’ decent, honest, fawsont folk, respectable

      Are riven out baith root an’ branch, thrown out by force, both

      Some rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,

      145 Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster who

      In favor wi’ some gentle Master,

      Wha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin’, who, maybe crowd

      For Britain’s guid his saul indentin’ — good, soul engaged

      CAESAR

      Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: an exclamation, know

      150 For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. good

      Say rather, gaun as PREMIERS lead him: go

      An’ saying aye or no ’s they bid him:

      At Operas an’ Plays parading,

      Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:

      155 Or maybe, in a frolic daft,

      To HAGUE or CALAIS takes a waft,

      To mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,

      To learn bon ton, an’ see the worl’. Fr. good breeding

      There, at VIENNA or VERSAILLES,

      160 He rives his father’s auld entails; splits, old

      Or by MADRID he taks the rout, road

      To thrum guittarres an’ fecht wi’ nowt; strum, guitars, fight with cattle

      Or down Italian Vista startles, courses

      Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: among

      165 Then bowses drumlie German-water, drinks muddy

      To mak himsel look fair an’ fatter,

      An’ clear the consequential sorrows,

      Love-gifts of Carnival Signioras.

      for britain’s guid! for her destruction!

      170 Wi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction!

      LUATH

      Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate way

      They waste sae monie a braw estate! so many

      Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d so troubled

      For gear ta gang that gate at last! wealth to go

      175 O would they stay aback frae courts, away from

      An’ please themsels wi’ countra sports, country

      It wad for ev’ry ane be better, would, every one

      The Laird, the Tenant, an’ the Cotter!

      For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies, those, lads

      180 Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; few of them are

      Except for breakin o’ their timmer, timber

      Or speakin lightly o’ their Limmer, mistress

      Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,

      The ne’era-bit they’re ill to poor folk.

      185 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, no cold, touch

      The vera thought o’t need na fear them. very, not

      CAESAR

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

      190 The Gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! would

      It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, not

      Thro’ Winter’s cauld, or Simmer’s heat; cold, summer’s

      They’ve nae sair-wark to craze their banes,