PART II.

B UT still my story is nae done yet —
Perhaps the maist o't is to come yet;
So here I go, be't verse or prose,
To draw my similies to a close.
But faith I fear I've tint my subject,
An' wi' my fancies lost the object;
My bu'rd is no yet full survey'd,
We'll view him on the ither side.
E'en thou, wi' a' thy outward shape,
Thy studded tail an' glossy nape,
Hast e'en thy failin's, cracks an' flaws,
Thy eldritch scraichs and fiend-like claws;
Thy belly's but a dirty din,
Thy flesh an' banes are foul within;
As I ha'e seen a stately biggin'
Restin' aboon the great folks riggin',
Contriv'd by pride to rot in state,
Engrav'd wi' mighty, lofty, great;
But search it closely, lo, ye'll fin'
But banes an' dust an' dross within.
But something whispers, Haud ye there!
In this ye dinna reason fair:
Your wame's fou' weel for a' our blethers,
Altho' it has nae bonny feathers;
They hap you weel an' keep your warm,
An' save your tenderer parts frae harm.
So things we never shou'd abuse,
That's no for show, but made for use —
There's ither burds that I could name,
Has coarser feathers on their wame:
An' mony a fowl, tho' brawly tappit,
That looks best whan their legs are happit.
But then, again, pray what's your use?
Ye're seen about nae poor man's house —
Ye're no for travel, no for toilin',
Ye're no for roastin', stewin', boilin';
Your only being's but for show,
Or mind the ladies o' a beau.
Are ye contenter wi' your pens,
Than cock-maleirie wi' his hens,
While he upon the middin' craws,
An' ye, to sun spread out your braws?
Or can you better bide the stowre,
Of comin' winter's chilly pow'r;
Or dree misfortune's keener storm,
Than chucky in her hamely form?
I trow your trappin's then are vain,
An' only catch the win' an' rain;
An' rather prove a source o' sorrows —
But, 'las! thou hast owre mony marrows.
Nature thro' a' her various roads,
Bestows nae pleasure wi' sic odds,
As whyles we think, in lowly state,
Viewin' the greatness o' the great;
For if content's within the breast,
Eneugh will do as weel's a feast:
'Tis true they hae the brawer houses,
Their naigs, an' nowte, and rowth o' spouses;
Their chaise to ride in whan they tire —
Their ease, their wine, their bleezin' fire;
Their titles, lands, and livin's bra';
Their crouchin' flunkies at their ca';
Their sumptuous meals are never scant,
They never ken the carle Want —
But than, what signifies their treasure?
Their burden Plenty brings nae pleasure;
They're born to wealth an' think't nae blessin';
They ken nae pleasure in possessin'.
Gif nae restraint the object claim,
It leaves the wish without an aim.
Idle in life, they try a' schemes,
Adorn their backs, an' fill their wames;
Fulfil ilk wish, be't right or wrang,
But never stay by ae thing lang.
They ken nae gude o' weel-tim'd meal,
That kitchens aft the poor man's kail;
They never ken the sweets o' toilin',
That keeps the gloomy min' frae spoilin';
They're seldom blest wi' rosy health,
For a' their lumps o' ease an' wealth;
Or virtuous love an' bairnies 'roun',
That keep the feeble hopes in tune.
In short, we've thoughtless joys an' wants,
They wealth, wi' nervous th' aws an' gaunts.
Tho' flauntin', for a slight inspection,
Ye downa thole a close dissection;
An' thus the proverb does declare,
That far aff fowls ha'e feather's fair.
Again, we ha'e the sage's word,
That feathers often form the bird;
But twine thee o' thy trappin's a',
Thou'rt war fa'ur'd than a plucked daw.
Now, should our men o' holy order,
Be stripped o' their bands an' border,
An' siclike trappin's o' the sect,
That draws a rev'rence o' respect;
Tak' aff the mystic wig and cloak,
A priest might look like — ither folk:
His face or flank indeed might shine —
Tho' no wi' guzzlin' beef or wine;
But by the grace beams frae within,
Or blushin' for his country's sin;
Or knops on's knees, worn hard as horn,
Wi' lengthen'd kneelin's night and morn.
Aiblins, thro' sleep's forgetfu' potion,
The foul thief whiles might draw his notion,
When reason's pores an doors are steekit,
To dream o' glebe's an' stipen's eekit,
An' ither things there's nae great harm in,
As wenches, manses, horns, or farmin';
Or guns, or gloves, or ither whims —
But wha can answer for their dreams?
So Soldier shape in scarlet dashes,
Wi' sword-knots, tassels, cane, and sashes;
Wi' frills an' feathers on his tappin',
He flegs thro' a' the nooks o' Wappin',
Some tailor loon or pander spark,
That made his court to Lucky C — — k.
But should some former shopmate meet him,
An' thus in cantin' dialect greet him:
" What, neighbour Snip! upon my word,
He's chang'd his bodkin for a sword;
Tho' thread and thimble low do lie,
The goose, I see, is fit to fly:
If duly taught, may answer soon,
For an invasion of the moon. "
He'd prance and stare — " Why, demme, I
Never knew thee, thou chattering pye.
Decamp, or by my bloody weapons,
I'll cut thy buckram soul to shapin's! "
Then ruthless draws his glancin' rapier,
An' round his comrade cuts a caper.
But should the route direct his courses
To join afar his country's forces;
Or battle burst, an' him but hear o't,
He'd faint an' fa' wi' perfect fear o't;
There bloodless lie amang the slain,
An' wish him at his wark again.
So Dominies, wi' great pretences,
Because they're up to verbs an' tenses,
An' 'cause bairns cowr, an' ca' them Master,
An' 'cause they use the lance an' clyster;
Alike in every science happy,
To pluck a tooth, or set a capy;
Think they can judge o' verse or prose,
An' pert pop in their word an' nose;
Will tell you a' what's right, what's wrang;
How this line's short, an' that line's lang;
Yet ken nae mair o' fancy's power
Than Peacocks, kickin up a stowre.
An' Lawyers, too, that brazen tribe,
That tak' nae pains their fau'ts to hide,
Like Pharaoh's lean kye, hard they bite,
An' live upon their nei'bour's spite. —
To paint their pranks I'm nae proficien:
We'll try some easier acquisition.