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POEMS,

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.

PART I.

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 werena 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 be 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 though 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 tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stand, 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' faithfu' 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 towsie 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 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 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;

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