Page images
PDF
EPUB

POEMS,

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.

Book I.

MORAL RELIGIOUS, AND PRECEPTIVE.

THE TWA DOGS

A TALE.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,

When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

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 nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin',
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsey's messin :
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tauted 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,

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,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke,
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

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,
And there began a ing digression
About the Lords o' the Creation.

CÆSAR.

I've aften wondered, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's te 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;
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,
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.

* Cuthullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.

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 fasht enough
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes begin a dyke,
Boring a quarry, and sic like.
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his hand darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

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.

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, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
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 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 hae 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,

'The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They're ay in less o" 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 Can make 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', An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' every station,
Unite in common recreation :

Love blinks, Wit slaps, and 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, an' sueeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right gude will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin thro' the house-
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still its owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridfu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin-
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 make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.

There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entrails;
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 drumbly 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 sa 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!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows!
Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor.cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will you tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am. The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

It's true, they need nae starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat.

« PreviousContinue »