The Beauties of Burn's Poems

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[Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.]

Cotters' Saturday-Night

THE

OF

' .

The Cotter's Saturday-Night.

INSCRIBED TO R. A****, Esq.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short but simple annals of the Poor.—GRAY.

MY lov'd, my honour'd, much-respected friend, No mercenary Bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest need, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in Life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What A**** in a cottage would have been; Ah! thoʻ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning train o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly toil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in case and rest to spend, And weary, owre the muir, his course does homeward bend.

At length his lonely Cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expecting wee-things, todlin-stachor through To meet their Dad, wi' flighterin noise and glee. His w bit ingle blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty Wifie's smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And maks him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Relyve the elder bairns come drappin in, At service out amang the farmers roun'; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd; some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibour town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthful bloom love sparklin in her ee, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, O deposit her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parcats dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy, unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, And each for other's wlefare kindly spiers; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic d fleet:. Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;

The parents, partial, ee their hopefu' years; Anticipation forward points the view : The mother wi' her needle and her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their Master's and their Mistress's command, The younkers n' are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, And ne'er, tho' out of sight, to jauk or play And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. Implore his counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright.

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door: Jenny, wha kens the meaning of the same, Tells how a neibour lad came owre the moor, To do some errands, and ccavoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck anxious care inquires his, name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : Weel pleas'd, the mother lears it's nae wild worthless rake.

With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; A strappin youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenay sees the visit's no ill ta'en. The father cracks o' horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart oferflows wi' joy, But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;

The mother, mi' a woman's wiles, can spy What maks the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave: Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respeckitlike the lave

O happy love! where love like this is found: O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary mortal round, And sure Experience bids me this declare- If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others arms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milli-white tharn that scents the evening gale.

Is there in human form, that bears the heart- A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That ean, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are Honour, Virtue, Conscience, all exil'd? Is there no Pity, no relenting Ruth. Points to the Parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their ditraction wile

Put now the supper crowns the simple board, The healsome Parritch, chief of Scotia's food, The some their only Hawkie does afford, That yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The Dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the Lad, her well-lain't kebheck fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it gude; The frugal Wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld sin lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' Supper done, wi' serious face, They found the ingle form a circle wide; The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart hafrats wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wails a portion with judicious care: And 'Let us worship God,' he says, wi' solemn air,

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs', worthy of the name; Qr noble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame: The tickl'd ears nae heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison they hae with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the Friend of God on high; Or Moses bad eternal warfare rage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic 'plaint, and wailing cry; Or wrapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire; Or other Holy Seers, that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian Volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:

How his first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who love in Patmos baniched, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand! And heard great Bab'lon's doom prouounced by Heaven's command!

Then kneeling down to Heav'n's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband, prayse Hope springs exulting on triumphant wing, That thus they all shall meet in future days There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole: But, hap'ly, in some cottage, far apart, May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul, And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way: The youngling Cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with Grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, And certes, in fair Virtue's heav nly road, The Cottage leaves the Palace far behind: What is a lordship's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, is wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warniest wish to Heav'n is sent! Long may thy hardy sons, of rustic toil, Be blest with health, and pace, and sweet content! And, O may Heav'n their simple lives prevent From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

O 'Thou who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stree'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part! The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and rewardǃ O never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the Patriot and the patriot-Bard, In bright succession rise, her Ornament and Guards

Death and Doctor Hornbook

Death and Doctor Hornbook,

A TRUE STORY.

Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd; Ev'n Ministers they hae been ken'd, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nailt wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is just as true's the Diel's in hell, Or Dublin-city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 's a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty, I wasna fou, but just had plenty; I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches; And hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kent ay Frae ghaists and witches.

The rising moon began to glowr The disrant Cumnock hills out-owre; To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I coudna tell

I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, To keep me sicker; The' leeward whiles, against my will, I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather, That pat me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear dangling hang; A three-taed leister on the ither Lay, large and lang.

It's stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For fient a wame it had at ava; And then it's shanks, They were as thin, and sharp, and sma, As cheeks o' branks.

Gude-een, quoʻI, Friend, hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin? It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak: At length says I, Friend, whare ye gaun? Will ye gae back?

It spak right howe—My name is Death— But bena floyd.—Quoth I, Gude faith Ye're maybe come to stap my breath! But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel tak care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!

Gudeman, quo' he, put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, it was be kittle To be mislear'd, I wadina mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard.

Weel, weel, says I, a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, and sae we're greet; We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat: Come gies your news; This while ye hae been mony a gate, At mony a house.

Ay, ay! quo he, and shook his head, It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed, Sin' I began to nick the thread, And choke the breath: Fock maun do something for their bread, And she maun Death.

Six thousand years are nearhand fled, Sin' I was to the batching bred; And mony a scheme in vain's been laid To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbooks taen up the trade, And faith he'll waur me.

Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, Deit mak his king's-hood in a splenchan! He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Guchan, And ither chaps, The weans had cut their fingers, laughin, And pouk my hips.

See here's a scythe, and there's dart, They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart, But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f—t. Damn'd haet they'll kill.

'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, I threw a noble dart at ane, Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirt on the bane, But did nae mair.

Hornbook wag by, wi' ready art And had sae fortified the part That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierce the heart О'a kail-runt.

I drew my scythe in-sic a fury, I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry:

But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock: I might as weelhae tried a quarry O' hard whin-rock.

Ev'n them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, Just-in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At ance be tells't.

And then o' doctors' saws and whittlss, Of a' dimensions, shapes, and mettles, A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, He's sure to hae: Their Latin names as fast he rattles, As A, B, C.

Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and pease; He hast in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye.

Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus o' capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'd per se; Sal alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mony mae

Waes me for Johnny God's hole new, Quoth I, if that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward. whare gowans grew Sae white and bonny, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plow; They'll ruin Johnny!

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, Ye needa yoke the plough, Kirkyards will soon be till'd enough, Tak ye nae fear: They'll a' be treach'd wi' mony a sheugh, In twa-three year.

Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blude, or want o' breath, This night I'ın free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap and pill.

An honest, wabster to his trade, Wha's wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, Gat tippence worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair!

A countra Laird had taen the bats, Or some curmurring in his gats, His only son for Hornbook sets, And pays him well;

The lad, for twa gude gimmer pets, Was Laird himsel.

A bonny lase, ye ken her name, Some in-brewn drink had hov'd her wame, She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, In Hornbook's care: Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there.

That's just a swatch of Hornbook's way; Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, An's weel paid for't: Yet stops me of my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d-n'd dirt.

But hark! I'll tell you o' a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't, I'll nail the self-conceited sot As dead's a herrin; Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin,

But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk hammer strak the bell, Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith. I took the way that pleas'd mysel. And see did Death.

The Brigs of Ayr

The Brigs of Ayr.

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thornbush, The soaring lark, thic piercing red-breast shrill. Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lonely shed, To hardy Independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field; Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes! Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the vepal soul of dedicating Prose! No! though his artless strains he rudely sings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings, He glows with all the spies of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace; When B… befriends his humble name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom swells, The godlike blies, to give, alone excels. <>… 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath;

The boss rejoicing o'er their summer toils, >>> Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' deevils, smoor'd wi' brunstane reek! The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys recling, scatter wide: The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage he: (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs; Nae nair the grove with airy concert rings, Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee, Proud of the height of some but hauf-lang tree; The hoary mern precedes the sunny days, >>> Md. calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season when a simple Bard, Unknown, and poor, simplicity's reward, Ae night, within the ancient Brugh o' Ayr, By whim inspir'd, or hap'ly prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, And down by Simpson's wheel the left about (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander'd out he knew not where or why). The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two, And Wallace's Tow'r had sworn the fact was true;

The tide-swoln Frith, with sullen sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore: All else was hush'd as Nature's closed ee; The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream— When lo! on either hand, the list'ning Bard, The clanging sug of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart throʻ the midnight air, Swift as the Goss drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers. Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd The Spʻrits that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside: (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the spiritual folk; Fays, Spankies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them; And even the very Diels they brawly ken them): Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pietish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; He seem'd as he is time had warsl'd lang, Yet, toughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got: In's hand five taper-staves, as smooth's a bead, Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round wi' anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch; It chane'd his new come neibour took his ee, And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he: Wi' thieveless sheer to see his modish mein, He, down the water, gies him thus gude-e'en.—

<>AULD BRIG. I doubtra' frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, Ance ye were streakit out frae bank to bank; But gin ye be a brig as lang as me, Tho' faith that day, I doubt, we'll never see, There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmelceries in your noddle.

<>NEW BRIG. Auld Vendal, ye but shew your little mense, Just much about it wi' your anty sense; Will your poor narrow foot-path o' a street, Where twa-wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin'd formless bulk ostane and lime, Compare wi' bonny Brigs o' modern time? There's men o' taste wad tal the Ducat stream, Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they wad grate their feelings wi' the view O' sic an ugly Gothic bulk as you,

<>AULD BRIG. Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride! This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide; And tho' wi' crazy cild I'm sair for fairn, I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform you better, When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; When from the hills whare springs the brawling Coll Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or whare the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpel draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds, and spotting thowes, In many a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, Sweep dams, and mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate: And from Glenbuck down to the Ratton-Key, Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea: Then down ye hurl,—deil nor ye never rise; And dash the jumblie jaups up to the pouring skies: A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That Architecture's noble art is lost.

<>NEW BRIG. Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say o't! The D—l bethankit that we've tint the gate oʻt: Gaunt, ghastily, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging, with threat'ning, just like precipieces, O'er-arching mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 'Supporting roof's fantastic, stony groves: Windows and floors in nameless sculptures drest; With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms, like some bedlam-statuary dream, The craz'd creations of misguided whim: Forms might be worship'd on the bended knee, >>> And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found in earth, or air, or sea;

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids, forsworn the dear embrace; Or cuifs of latter times, wha held the notion. That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion. Fancies that our gude Burgh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection.

<>AULD BRIG. O ye, my dear remember'd, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings: Ye worthy Provosses and mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; Ye dainty Deacons, and ye donce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners; Ye godly Councils, wha hae blest this town; Ye godly brethren, of the sacred gown, Wha meekly gae our hurdies to the smiters; (And what would now be strange) ye godly Writers: And ye douce fock I've born aboon the broo, Here ye but here, what would ye say or do? How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration: And, agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base degenerate race! Nae langer Rev'fend Men, their country's glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story! Nae langer thristy Citizens and douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herriment and ruin o' the country; Men, three parts made by Tailors and by Barbere, Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on d—d new brigs and harbours!

<>NEW BRIG. Now hand you there! for faith ye've aid enow, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, And for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle: But, under favour of your langer beard, Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd; To liken them to your auldwarl's quad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, Wag-wits hae mair can hae a handle To mouth a Citizen, a term o' scandal; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In a' the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops and raisins, Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. If hap'ly Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor'd them with a glimmer o' his lamp, And wad to Common-sense for once betray'd them, Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. <>… What farther clishimaclaver might have been said What bloody wars, if Sp'rits had blood to shed, No man can tell; but all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright! Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd While arts of minstrelsy among then rung. And soul-enobling Bards heroic dirties sung! O had M'Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring Sage, >>> Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore with Highland rage!

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares; How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd, And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, But all the soul of Music's self was heard; Harmonious concert rung in ev'ry part, While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. The Genius of the stream in front appears, A venerable chief advanc'd in years, His hoary head with water-lillies crown'd, His manly leg with garter tangle bound. Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, Sweet female Beauty, hand in hand with Spring: Then crown'd with flowery bay, came Rural Joy, And Summer, with his fervid beaming eye: All-chearing Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn: Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, By Hospitality with cloudless brow. Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride, From whence the Feal wild woody coverts hide: Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, A female form, came from the towers of Stair: Learning and worth in equal measures trode, From simple Catrine, their long-liv'd abode: They footed o'er the watery glass so neat, The infant Ice, scarce bent beneath their feet. Last white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazle wreath To rustic Agriculture did bequeath The broken iron instruments of death: At sight of which, our Sp'rits forgat their kindling wrath.

The Twa Dogs, a Tale

The Twa Dogs.—A Tale.

'Twas in the place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name of Auld King Coil, Upon bonny day in June, When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd dance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keep it for his Honor's pleasure; His hair his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shaw d he was nane of Scotland's dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked letter'd braw brass collar, Shaw'd him the gentleman and scholar But though he was of high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he, But wad hae spent an hour caressin E'n wi' a tinkler gypsey's messin: At kick or market, mill or smiddle, Nae tawted tyke though e'er sae duddie, But he was stant't as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes and 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, Was made langsyne—Lord kens how lang.

He was a gash and faithfu' tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke; His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face Ay gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzle back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither And unco pack and thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkitː Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, And 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.

<>CÆSAR. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have: And when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our Laird gets in his racket 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 bonny silkyn purse As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;

And though the gentry first are stechin, Yet een the ha' fock fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright waistrie, Our whipper-inn, wee blastit wonner, Boor worthless elf, it eats a dinner Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the lan'! And what poor cot-fock put 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 quary, and sicklike, Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, And nought but his han'-daurg, to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer, And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger: But how it comes, I never kend 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 neglectit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespectit! L—d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, as for cattle; They gang as saucy by poor fock, As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've notic'd on our Laird's court day, And 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, poind their gear; While they maun stan' wi' aspect humble, And hear it a', and fear and trembleǃ I see how fock live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches.