MISCELLANEOUS POETRY.

TOWSER.

A TRUE TALE.

46

Dogs are honest Creatures,

Ne'er fawn on any that they love not;

And I'm a friend to dogs,

They ne'er betray their masters.'

IN

mony an instance, without doubt,

The man may copy frae the brute,
And by th' example grow much wiser,
Then read the short memoirs of Towser.

With def'rence to our great Lavaters, Wha judge a' mankind by their features, There's mony a smiling, pleasant fac'd cock, That wears a heart no worth a custock,

While mony a visage, antic, droll,

O'erveils a noble, gen'rous soul.

With Towser this was just the case,
He had an ill-faur't tawtie face,

His make was something like a messin,
But big, and quite unprepossessin',
His master caft him frae some fallows,
Wha had him doom'd unto the gallows,
Because (sae hap'd poor Towser's lot)
He wadna' tear a comrade's throat;
Yet in affairs of Love or Honour,
He'd stand his part amang a hun'er,
And where'er fighting was a merit,
He never fail'd to show his spirit.

He never girn'd in neighbour's face, With wild ill natur'd scant of grace, Nor e'er accosted ane with smiles, Then, soon as turn'd, wou'd bite his heels, Nor ever kent the courtier art,

To fawn with rancour at his heart,

Nor aught kent he of cankert quarr'lling,

Nor snarling just for sake of snarling,

Ye'd pinch him sair afore he'd growl,
Whilk shows he had a mighty soul.

But what adds maistly to his fame,
And will immortalize his name-
"Immortalize !-presumptive wight!
Thy lines are dull as darkest night,
Without ae spark o' wit or glee,
To light them through futurity."
E'en be it sae, poor Towser's story,
Though lamely tauld, will speak his glory.

"Twas in the month o' cauld December, When nature's fire seem'd just an ember, And growling Winter bellow'd forth

In storms and tempests frae the north→→→
When honest Towser's loving master,
Regardless o' the surly bluster,

Set out to the neist burrow town,

To buy some needments of his own,

And, case some purse-pest shou'd way-lay him, He took his trusty servant wi' him."

His bus'ness done, 'twas near the gloaming,
And aye the King o' Storms was foaming.
The doors did ring-lum-pigs down tumbl'd,
The strands gush'd big-the sinks loud rumbl'd;
Auld grannies spread their looves, and sigh'd,
Wi' "O Sirs! what an awfu' night!"—
Poor Towser shook his sides a' draigl'd,
And's master grudg'd that he had taigl'd;
But, wi' his merchandizing load,

Come weel, come wae, he took the road.
Now clouds drave o'er the fields like drift,
Night flung her black cleuk o'er the lift;
And thro' the naked trees and hedges,
The horrid storm, redoubl'd, rages;
And, to complete his piteous case,
It blew directly in his face.---

Whyles 'gainst the foot-path stabs he thumped,
Whyles o'er the coots in holes he plumped;

But on he gaed, and on he waded,

Till he at length turn'd faint and jaded.

To gang he could nae langer bide,

But lay down by the bare dykę-side