Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/48

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
That merry day the year begins,They bar the door on frosty win's;The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,Are handed round wi' right guid will;The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,The young anes ranting 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 stockO' decent, honest, fawsont folk,Are riven out baith root an' branch,Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel the fasterIn 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 guid! guid faith! I doubt it.Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,An' saying aye or no's they bid him:At operas an' plays parading,Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:Or maybe, in a frolic daft,To Hague or Calais taks a waft,To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.There, at Vienna or Versailles,He rives his father's auld entails;Or by Madrid he taks the rout,To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt;Or down Italian vista starties,Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:Then bouses drumly German water,To mak himsel look fair and fatter,An' clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of Carnival Signoras.For Britain's guid! for her destruction!Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
LUATH.Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gateThey waste sae mony a braw estate!Are we sae foughten an' harass'dFor gear to gang that gate at last?
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