THE TWA DOGS.

A TALE.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,1
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at haine,
Forgather'd ance upon a time,

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honor's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'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 though he was o' high degree,
The filent a pride, na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
E'en wi' 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, roving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,2

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 placé.

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 and thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and showkit;
Whyles mice and mondie worts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
And 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.

CESAR.

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 bonníe silken purse,

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,
The yellow-letter'd Geordid keeks.

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling: An' though the gentry fast are stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie, Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eat a dinner, Better than ony tenant man

His honour has in a' the lan';

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a 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.

And when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want of masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger:
But, how it comes. I never ken'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then, to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
Lord, man! our gentry care sae little
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinding 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 and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them, point their gear:
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble
And hear it a,' an' fear and tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches:
But surely poor folk maun be wretched!

LAUTH.

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think,
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gi'es them little fright.

Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided:
And though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their gruseie weans an' faithfu' wives:
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.

And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation's comin, And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, They get the jovial, rantine kirns, When rural life, o' every station, Unite in common recreation;

Love Blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins They bar the door on frosty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling reain, An' sheds a heart-inspiring stream; The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, The young anes rantin' through the house. My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, Are riven out baith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greec to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the fester In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha aiblins thrang a-parliamentin', For Britain's guid his saul indentin'.

CÆSAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith I doubt it;
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An' saying aye or no's they bid him;
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading,
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,

To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To make a tour, and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, and see the worl'.
There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles.

Wh re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of carnival signoras,

For Britain's guid! for her de truction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.

LAUTH.

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae monie a braw estate?
Are we sae foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last?

O wad they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themselves wi' countra sports,
It wad for every ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, and the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows,
Except for breakin' o' their trimmer,
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit, they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Maister Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a live of pleasure;
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them,
The very thought o't need na fear them.

CÆSAR.

Lord, man! were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy em.

It's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
And fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They make enow themselves to vex them,
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them:
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country lassie at her wheel;
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel;
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy;
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless;
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,
There gallopin' through public places;
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;

Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring,
Niest day their life is past enduring
The ladies arm in arm, in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jades thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and plaitie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty:
Or lee-langs nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard,
And cheat like only unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.

By this the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night;
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;
When up they gat and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs;
And each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.

SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief an' care;
There let him bouse, and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other poets raise a fracas,

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus,
And crabbit names and stories wrack us,
And grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scotch beare can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink;
Whether through wimpling worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,
To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
And aits set up their awnie horn,
And pease and beans at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain,
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood In souple scones, the wale o' food! Or tumblin' in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin',
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin
But, oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down hill, scrievin',
Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear:
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair
W' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head.
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need,
The poor man's wine;

llis wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

Bout thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reeking on a New-year mornin'

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
An' ploughmen gather with their graith,
O rare! to see thee fizz and freath

In the lugget caup!

Then Burnewin3 comes on like death At ev ry chanp.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel:
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel',
Brings hard owrchip, with sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,

Till block and studdie ring and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skrilin' weanies see the light,
Thon maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a socials night,
Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
And just as wud and wud can be,
How easy can the barley bree

Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that c'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason;
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,
And hardly, in a winter's season,
E'en spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' mony a pain and brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O'hauf his days;
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, who wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chiefs, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless deevils like mysel'!
It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An gouts torment him inch by inch,
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch
O' sur disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch,
Wi' honest men.

O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!

Thou comes-they rattle i' their ranks
At 'ither's**

!

Thee Ferintosh! O sadly lost!

Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, and barking hoast,
May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,
Is ta'en awa'!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers;

An' bake them up in brunstane pies,
For poor --- drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill,
An' rowth of rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,

An' deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

Low i' the dust,

An' screechin' out prosaic verse,
An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
On Aquivitæ ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction
An' inove their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,5
The honest, open, naked truth;
Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth,
His servans humble.
The muckle devil blaw ye south,
If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom!
Speak out, and never fash your thumb!
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom
Wi' them wha grant 'em:
If honestly they canna come,

Far better want 'em.

In gath'ring votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack;
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,
An' hum an' haw;

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack
Before them a',

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thissle;
Her mutchkin stoop as toom's a whissle;
An'
Excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin' a stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel,
Or lampit shell.

Then on the tither hand present her,
A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,
An' cheerk-for-chow, a chuffle Vintner,
Colleaguing join,

Picking her pouch as bare as winter
Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld Mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight!
But could I like Montgomeriese fight,
Or gad like Boswell,

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An' tie some hose well.

God bless your honours! can ye see't,
The kind, anld, cantie Carlin greet,
An' no get warmly to your feet,

An' gar them hear it,
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat,
Ye winna bear it!

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an' pause,
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;
Then echo thro' St Stephen's wa's,
Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true-blue Scot I'se warran Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;7 An' that glib-garret Highland baron,

The Laid o' Graham:8

An' ane, a chap that's---auld farran, Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie:
True Campbells, Frederick, an' Ilay:
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie,
An' mony ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.

See, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented,
If bardies e'er are represented:
I ken that if your sword were wanted,
Ye'd lend a hand,

But when there's ought to say anent it,
Ye're at a stand.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle:
Or faith, I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle
You'll see't or lang,
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,
Anither sang.

This while she's been in cank'rous mood;
Her lost Militia fired her bluid:
(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)

And now she's like to rin red-wud
About her Whisky.

An', Lord, if ance they pit her till't,
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
An' durk an' pistol at her belt,
She'll tak the streets,

An' rin her whittle to the hilt
I'th' first she meets!

Forsake, sirs! then speak her fair
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,
An' to the muckle house repair,
Wi' instant speed,

An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,
To get remead.

Yon ill-tongued tinkler, Charlie Fox,,
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!
E'en cowe the caddie!
And send him to his dicing-box
An' sportin' lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's,
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock':
Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,
Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He need na fear their foul reproach,
Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch
The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She's just a devil wi' a rung;
An' if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be strung,
She'll no desert.

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your Mither's heart support ye:
Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place.

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,
Before his face.

God bless your Honours a' your days,
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise,
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie's!
Your humble poet sings an' prays
While Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

LET half-starved slaves in warmer skics
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blithe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,
Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phœbus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms;
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonour arms

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shonther;
They downa bide the stink o' pouther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither
Or stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot-they're, a' throwther,
To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George's will,
An' there's the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.