POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 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 Honour'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 fient a pride na pride had he; But wad hae spent en hour caressin', Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. The tither was a ploughman's collie, Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang. He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, • Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social noise whyles snuff'd and snowkit; Whyles mice and mowdieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression, About the lords o' the creation, CESAR. I've often wonder'd honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you nave; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies lived 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; He draws a bonnie silken purse, As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' tho' the gentry fast are stechin', Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastric. 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, I own its past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't eneugt A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like, Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han' darg, to keep Them right and tight in thack an' rape, An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want of masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. CESAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L-d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor fo'k, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic'd on our Laird's court day I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches. LUATH. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; The prattlin things are just their pride That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whyles twalpenpie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin', And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, When rural life, o' every station, Unite in common recreation : Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty winds; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, Still it's owre true that ye hae said, CESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain's guid!—guid faith, I doubt it! Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' sayin' aye or no's they bid him: At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; Or may be, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, To learn bon ton and see the worl' There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails! Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles: Then bouses drumly German water, To mak himsel' look fair and fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love gifts of Carnival signoras. | For Britain's guid!—for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. LUATH. Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate ! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last! O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themselves wi' countra sports, It wad for every ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure! Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The very thought o't need na fear them. CÆSAR." L-d, man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Ae night they're mad wi' drink an wh-ring, There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is Gentry's life in common. By this the sun was out o' sight: An' darker gloaming brought the night: The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan: When up they gat an shook their lugs, Reioic'd they were na men but dogs; And each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day. SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink, Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle; An' d-mn'd Excisemen in a bussle, Seizin' a stell, Then on the tither hand present her, Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, God bless your Honours, can ye see't, An gar them hear it, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, Ye winna bear it! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To mak harangues; Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;• • Sir Adam Ferguson. An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, The Laird o' Graham ;• An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay; An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; An' mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, This while she's been in canc'rous mood, Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie!) An' now she's like to rin red-wud An' Ld if ance they pit her till't, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' the first she meets! For G-d sake, Sirs! then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock's, If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, Could he some commutation broach, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; • The present Duke of Montrose.-(1800.) A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink. |