POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. BOOK I. MORAL, RELIGIOUS, & 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, 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-gypsey'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, He was a gash an' faithful tyke, Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, Until wi' daffin weary grown, * Cufhullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. And there began a lang digression CÆSAR. 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, As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks, Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 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, Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, As when they meet with sair disasters, CÆSAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day, I see how folks live that hae riches; LUATH. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; ho' constantly on poortith's brink: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 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 c' 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 reain, An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi' right gude will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro' the houseVOL, I.-G |