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, Whyles mice and moudieworts 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, * Cuthullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. And there began a lang digression CESAR. I've aften wondered, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 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; As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks, Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechin 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 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. 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, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L-d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, A I wad by a stinking brock. 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! |