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Part XIVPart XIV
Part XIV
The Twa Dogs^1
A Tale
`Twas in that place o` Scotland`s isle,
That bears the name o` auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin` 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 Caesar,
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,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter`d, braw brass collar
Shew`d him the gentleman an` 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` al 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,
An` 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 freak 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 place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi` coat o` glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi` upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdie`s wi` a swirl.
[Footnote 1: Luath was Burns` own dog.]
[Footnote 2: Luath, Cuchullin`s dog in Ossian`s "Fingal."-R. B.]
Nae doubt but they were fain o` ither,
And unco pack an` thick thegither;
Wi` social nose whiles snuff`d an` snowkit;
Whiles mice an` moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour`d awa` in lang excursion,
An` worry`d ither in diversion;
Until wi` daffin` weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An` there began a lang digression.
About the "lords o` the creation."
Caesar
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 kane, an` 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 bonie silken purse,
As lang`s my tail, where, 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, an` sic like trashtrie,
That`s little short o` downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats 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, Caesar, whiles they`re fash`t eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi` dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an` sic like;
Himsel`, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o` wee duddie weans,
An` nought but his han`-daurk, to keep
Them right an` tight in thack an` rape.
An` when they meet wi` sair disasters,
Like loss o` health or want o` masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An` they maun starve o` cauld an` hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They`re maistly wonderfu` contented;
An` buirdly chiels, an` clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Caesar
But then to see how ye`re negleckit,
How huff`d, an` cuff`d, an` disrespeckit!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an` sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I`ve notic`d, 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 an` threaten, curse an` swear
He`ll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan`, wi` aspect humble,
An` hear it a`, an` fear an` tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
Luath
They`re no sae wretched`s ane wad think.
Tho` constantly on poortith`s brink,
They`re sae accustom`d wi` the sight,
The view o`t gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They`re aye in less or mair provided:
An` tho` fatigued wi` close employment,
A blink o` rest`s a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o` their lives,
Their grushie weans an` faithfu` wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a` their fire-side.
An` whiles 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 an` priests,
Wi` kindling fury i` their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation`s comin,
An` ferlie at the folk in Lon`on.
As bleak-fac`d Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of ev`ry 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 ream,
An` sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an` sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi` right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin thro` 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 mony a creditable stock
O` decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an` branch,
Some rascal`s pridefu` greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi` some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain`s guid his saul indentin-
Caesar
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 ay 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 mak a tour an` tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an` 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 an` fecht wi` nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Whore-hunting amang groves o` myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To mak himsel look fair an` fatter,
An` clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain`s guid! for her destruction!
Wi` dissipation, feud, an` faction.
Luath
Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an` harass`d
For gear to gang that gate at last?
O would they stay aback frae courts,
An` please themsels wi` country sports,
It wad for ev`ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an` the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o` them`s ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o` their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o` their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne`er-a-bit they`re ill to poor folk,
But will ye tell me, Master Caesar,
Sure great folk`s life`s a life o` pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e`er can steer them,
The very thought o`t need na fear them.
Caesar
Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad ne`er envy them!
It`s true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro` winter`s cauld, or simmer`s heat:
They`ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An` fill auld age wi` grips an` granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a` their colleges an` schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsel`s 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 acre`s till`d, he`s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen`s dune, she`s unco weel;
But gentlemen, an` ladies warst,
Wi` ev`n-down want o` wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank an` lazy;
Tho` deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, an` tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an` restless.
An`ev`n their sports, their balls an` races,
Their galloping 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 an` whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great an` gracious a` as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o` ither,
They`re a` run-deils an` jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an` platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi` crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil`s pictur`d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer`s stackyard,
An` cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There`s some exceptions, man an` woman;
But this is gentry`s life in common.
By this, the sun was out of sight,
An` darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm`d wi` lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i` the loan;
When up they gat an` shook their lugs,
Rejoic`d they werena men but dogs;
An` each took aff his several way,
Resolv`d to meet some ither day.
The Author`s Earnest Cry And Prayer
To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the
House of Commons.^1
Dearest of distillation! last and best-
-How art thou lost!-
Parody on Milton.
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an` squires,
Wha represent our brughs an` shires,
An` doucely manage our affairs
In parliament,
To you a simple poet`s pray`rs
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours` hearts wi` grief `twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her arse
Low i` the dust,
And scriechinhout prosaic verse,
An like to brust!
[ Footnote 1": This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries,
of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful
thanks.-R. B.]
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an` me`s in great affliction,
E`er sin` they laid that curst restriction
On aqua-vitae;
An` rouse them up to strong conviction,
An` move their pity.
Stand forth an` tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o` mine an` Scotland`s drouth,
His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south
If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an` gloom?
Speak out, an` never fash your thumb!
Let posts an` pensions sink or soom
Wi` them wha grant them;
If honestly they canna come,
Far better want them.
In gath`rin 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 greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom`s a whissle;
An` damn`d excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushin`t like a mussel,
Or limpet shell!
Then, on the tither hand present her-
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An` cheek-for-chow, a chuffie 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,
Trode i` the mire out o` sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
Or gab like Boswell,^2
There`s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An` tie some hose well.
God bless your Honours! can ye see`t-
The kind, auld 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` with rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;
Then echo thro` Saint Stephen`s wa`s
Auld Scotland`s wrangs.
Dempster,^3 a true blue Scot I`se warran`;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;^4
An` that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
The Laird o` Graham;^5
An` ane, a chap that`s damn`d aulfarran`,
Dundas his name:^6
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;^7
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;^8
[Footnote 2: James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.]
[Footnote 3: George Dempster of Dunnichen.]
[Footnote 4: Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.]
[Footnote 5: The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose.]
[Footnote 6: Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.]
[Footnote 7: Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.]
[Footnote 8: Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll,
and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the
Court of Session.]
An` Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;^9
An` mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
See sodger Hugh,^10 my watchman stented,
If poets e`er are represented;
I ken if that 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,
Ye`ll see`t or lang,
She`ll teach you, wi` a reekin whittle,
Anither sang.
This while she`s been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fir`d her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
Play`d her that pliskie!)
An` 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` the first she meets!
For God sake, 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 an` lear,
To get remead.
[Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.]
[Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.]
Yon ill-tongu`d tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi` his jeers and mocks;
But gie him`t het, my hearty cocks!
E`en cowe the cadie!
An` send him to his dicing box
An` sportin` lady.
Tell you guid bluid o` auld Boconnock`s, ^11
I`ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An` drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock`s ^12
Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an` winnocks,
Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,
I`ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna 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.
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither`s heart support ye;
Then, tho`a minister grow dorty,
An` kick your place,
Ye`ll snap your gingers, poor an` hearty,
Before his face.
God bless your Honours, a` your days,
Wi` sowps o` kail and brats o` claise,
[Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]
[Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author`s in Mauchline, where he
sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.-R.B.]
In spite o` a` the thievish kaes,
That haunt St. Jamie`s!
Your humble poet sings an` prays,
While Rab his name is.
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