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Why, ye tenants of the lake
What waefu' news is this I hear
What ails ye now ye lousie beh
When lyart leaves bestrew the yird
With musing deep, astonish'd stare
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires
Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering





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'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o? Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie 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, Shew'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 Shew'd hin 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-gipsy'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, 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 towzie 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 whłyles snuff'd and snowkit ! Whyles mice an' moudieworts they hou kit;

* Cuchullin's dog, in Ossian's Fingal.

Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion ;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowè they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression,
About the lords o' the creation.


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 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 fluokies 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 it's nought but toiling;
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ba’ folk fill their pechan

sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrię,
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';

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