THE TWA DOGS

But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges an' schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel's to vex them;
An' aye the less they hae to sturta them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,

b

Her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel;
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,

Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy;
Tho' deil-haetd ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless.
An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp an art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowthere a' in deep debauches.
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
Neist day their life is past enduring.

The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an' gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run-deils an' jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang' nights, wi crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There's some exceptions, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.

AUTHOR'S CRY AND PRAYER

By this, the sun was out of sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtini' the loan;
When up they gat an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

The Author's Earnest cry and Prayer.1

To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch
Representatives in the House of Commons.

Dearest of distillation! last and best

-How art thou lost!

PARODY ON MILTON.

YE Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament,

To you a simple poet's pray'rs

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupit muse is hearse !!

Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittin on her arse

AUTHOR'S CRY AND PRAYER

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On aqua-vitæ ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
An' move their pity.

Stand forth an' tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,"
His servants humble:

The muckle deevil blaw you south

If ye dissemble!

b

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!"
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom d

Wi' them wha grant them;

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want them.

In gath'rin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,

An' hum an' haw;

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack

Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greetin' owre her thrissle ;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom's' a whissle;
An' d-mn'd excisemen in a bussle,

AUTHOR'S CRY AND PRAYER

Then, on the tither hand present her-
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner

Colleaguing join,

Picking her pouch as bare as winter

Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat

By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,

Trode i' the mire out o' sight?

But could I like Montgomeries 1 fight,

Or gab like Boswell,2

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,

An' tie some hose well.

God bless your Honours! can ye see't—
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet,

An' no get warmly to your feet,

An' gar
An' tell them wi' a patriot-heat

them hear it,

Ye winna bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an' pause,
An' with rhetoric clause on clause

To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

old wife.

169

2 James Boswell of Auchinleck, the well-known biographer of Johnson.

AUTHOR'S CRY AND PRAYER

Dempster,1 a true blue Scot I'se warran';
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;2
An' that glib-gabbit Highland baron,

The Laird o' Graham; 3

An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran',"
Dundas his name:

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 5
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay
An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;"

An' mony ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

4

Might own for brithers.

Sce, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,d
If poets e'er are represented;

I ken if that your sword were wanted,

Ye'd lend a hand;

But when there's ought to say anent it,
Ye're at a stand.8

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,'
Ye'll see❜t or lang,

She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,

Anither sang.