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| ’TWAS 1 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| Hung owre his hurdie’s wi’ a swirl. | |
| 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; | 40 |
| 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. | 45 |
| About the “lords o’ the creation.” | |
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CÆSAR
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. | 50 |
| 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; | 55 |
| 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; | 60 |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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. | 70 |
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LUATH
Trowth, C&æsar, 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, | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| Are bred in sic a way as this is. | |
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CÆSAR
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; | 90 |
| 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, | 95 |
| 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! | 100 |
| I see how folk live that hae riches; | |
| But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! | |
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LUATH
They’re no sae wretched’s ane wad think. | |
| Tho’ constantly on poortith’s brink, | |
| They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, | 105 |
| 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. | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| 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, | 120 |
| 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, | 125 |
| 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; | 130 |
| 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, | 135 |
| 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; | 140 |
| 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 | 145 |
| In favour wi’ some gentle master, | |
| Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, | |
| For Britain’s guid his saul indentin— | |
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CÆSAR
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: | |
| For Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it. | 150 |
| 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, | 155 |
| 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; | 160 |
| Or by Madrid he takes the rout, | |
| To thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt; | |
| Or down Italian vista startles, | |
| Wh-re-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles: | |
| Then bowses drumlie German-water, | 165 |
| 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. | 170 |
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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, | 175 |
| 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; | 180 |
| 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 C&æsar, | 185 |
| 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. | |
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CÆSAR
L—d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, | |
| The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! | 190 |
| 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, | 195 |
| 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. | 200 |
| 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, | 205 |
| 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. | 210 |
| 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, | 215 |
| 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; | 220 |
| 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 | 225 |
| 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. | 230 |
| 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, | 235 |
| Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; | |
| An’ each took aff his several way, | |
| Resolv’d to meet some ither day. | |
