An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're His locked, lettered, braw brass collar
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin'
To your black pit;
But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin',
An' cheat you yet.
But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
Oh, wad ye tak' a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-
Still ha'e a stake-
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Ev'n for your sake!
[The printer of the first or edition of Burns having suggested to the Poet that his volume should lead off with something of greater length and larger pretensions, "The Twa Dogs," in the February
of 1786, was penned. It was especially designed by its author to commemorate his own favourite dog Luath, which on the very night before his father's death was wantonly destroyed by some malignant person whose identity was never discovered.]
TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgathered 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,
Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
Showed him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride-nae pride had he;
But wad ha'e spent an hour caressin'
Even with a tinkler-gipsy's messin'.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though 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,
Aye 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 snuffed and snow.
kit;
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scoured awa' in lang excursion,
An' worried 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.
I've aften wondered, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you
An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies lived ava.
Our Laird gets in his rackèd 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, through the steeks,
The yellow-lettered Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' though the gentry first are stechin,
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragoûts, 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 honour has in a' the lan';
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld and
hunger;
But, how it comes, I never kenned it,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye 're negleckit, How huffed, and cuffed, and disrespeckit!
Lord, 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 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 an' threaten, curse an'
He 'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch I see how folk live that ha'e riches;
I own its past my comprehension.
But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
They're no sae wretched's ane wad
Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't Though constantly on poortith's brink:
A cotter howkin' in a sheagh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,
Baring à quarry, and sic like.
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han'-darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight,
The view o't gi'es them little fright.
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided ;
An' though fatigued wi' close employ.
ment,
A blink o' rest 's a sweet enjoyment.
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