Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After fome dog in Highland fang*,

Was made lang fyne, Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithful tyke,

As ever lap a fheugh or dyke.
His honeft, fonfie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
His breaft was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' gloffy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a fwirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither;

Wi' focial nofe whyles fnuff'd an' fnowkit,

Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;

A 2

* Cuchullin's dog in Offian's Fingal.

Whyles

}

Whyles fcour'd awa in lang excurfion,

An' worry'd ither in diverfion;

Until wi' daffin weary grown,

Upon a knowe they fat them down,
And there began a lang digreffion
About the lords o' the creation.

CESAR.

I've aften wonder'd, honeft Luath,
What fort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I faw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his ftents: He rifes when he likes himsel;

His flunkies answer at the bell;

He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonie filken 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, roafting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry firft are ftechin,
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' fauce, ragouts, an' ficklike trashtrie,
That's little fhort o' downright waftrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blaftit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man

His Honor has in a' the lan':

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,

I own it's paft my comprehenfion.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cafar, whyles they're fash't enough;

A cottar howkin in a fheugh,

Wi' dirty ftanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and ficklike,
Himfel, a wife, he thus fuftains,
A fmytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' daurg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' fair difafters, Like lofs o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun ftarve o' cauld and hunger : But, how it comes, I never kend yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in fic a way as this is.

CESAR.

But then to fee how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and difrefpeckit!

L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' fic cattle;
They gang as faucy by poor folk,
As 1 wad by a stinking brock,

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day, a time my heart's been wae,

An' mony a

Poor tenant bodies, fcant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's fnafh:
He'll ftamp an' threaten, curfe an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun ftan', wi' afpect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I fee how folk live that hae riches; But furely poor folk maun be wretches?