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, 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 an 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, 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 nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit; Whyles mice and modieworts 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. CÆSAR. I've aften wonder'd honest Luath, Our Laird gets in his racked rents, As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 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 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, I own its past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't eneugh; 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 ar' rape. 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, 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 an 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, 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 nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit; Whyles mice and modieworts 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. CÆSAR. I've aften wonder'd honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 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 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, I own its past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough; 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 ar' rape. An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' heath, 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. CÆSAR. 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 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 an' threaten, curse an' 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 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, An' whyles twalpennie 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, CÆSAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britain's guid!-guid faith, I doubt it! Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, An' saying 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 Casar, 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; By this the sun was out o' sight: SCOTCH DRINK. Gie him strong drink, until he wink, |