Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering

255

313

315

275

86

16

325

POEMS,

CHIEFLY

SCOTTISH.

THE TWA DOGS.

A TALE.

'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 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-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 whyles snuff'd and snowkit! Whyles mice an' moudieworts they how 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 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 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 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 ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' 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';