POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June,. When wearing thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar But tho' he was o' high degree, The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, * Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit! Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; Cuchullin's dog, in Ossian's Fingal Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, CÆSAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his stents: He rises when he likes himsel; His flunkies answer at the bell; He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; have; As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrię, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our Whipper-in, wee blastit`wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the lan’¿ An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough; A cottar howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, CÆSAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches! LUATII. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright. Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, They're ay in less or mair provided; An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy |