POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. BOOK I. MORAL, RELIGIOUS, AND PRECEPTIVE. THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, When wearing thro' the afternoon, The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keepit for his Honor's pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'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, Show'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, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang,' Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang * He was a gash an' faithful tyke, Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, * Cuthullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. And there began a lang digression CESAR. I've aften wondered, honest Luath, 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; He draws a bonie silken purse As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks, The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, His Honor has in a' the lan'; An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fasht enough A cotter howkin in a sheugn, Boring a quarry, and sic like. An' nought but his hand darg, to keep As when they meet with sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. CESAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash: He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, An' hear it a', an' fear, an' tremble! I see how folks live that aae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches! LUATH. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think, Tho' constantly on poortith's brink: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They're ay in less or mair provided; An', tho' fatigu'd with 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 As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns, Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; |