'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle
Upon a simmer Sunday morn
Upon that night, when fairies light
Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r
Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie
When biting Boreas, fell and doure
When chapman billies leave the street
When chill November's surly blast.
When death's dark stream I ferry o'er
While briers an' woodbines budding green
While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake
While virgin spring, by Eden's flood
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know.
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Why, ye Tenants of the lake
With musing deep, astonish'd stare
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires
WAS 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 were na thrang at hame,
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,
Shew'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 tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' 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.
* Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay 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 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.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like 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 bonnie silken
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, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first 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 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 past my comprehension.
Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, 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.
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