ramblin billies,
feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
except for breakin o' their timmer,
or speakin lightly o' their limmer,
or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
the ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk,
but will ye tell me, master caesar,
sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
nae cauld nor hunger e'er steer them,
the very thought o't need hem.
caesar
lord, man, were ye but whiles whare i am,
the gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them!
it's true, they need na starve or sweat,
thro'
The Twa Dogs(14/18)