Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/29

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When rural life, o' ever station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and Social Mirth
Forgets there's care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty winds;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring stream:
The lunting pipe, and sneeshing mill,
Are handed round wi' right gude will;
The cantie auld focks, cracking crouse;
The young anes rantin thro' the house—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest fawsent fowk,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin.
For Britain's guid his saul indentin.

CÆSAR.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's gude!—gude faith I doubt;
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
And saying Ay or No's they bid him!
At Operas and Plays parading,
Montgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or, maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,

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