THE TWA DOGS, A TALE. "TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearing through 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 honour's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Show'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, Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, na pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, E'en wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stawn'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' faithfu' tyke, His breast was white, his towzie back 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. CESAR. 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 kain, and a' his stents; *Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. He rises when he likes himsel; As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, Frae morn to e'en it's naught but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sicklike 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 honour has in a' the lan': An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension. LUATH. Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough; Baring a quarry, and sic like, 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 kenn'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. CESAR. But then to see how ye're negleckit, I've noticed on our laird's court-day, I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches? LUATH. They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think; Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 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' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mend the kirk and state affairs; They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's coming, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on. As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns, That merry day the year begins, Still it's owre true that ye hae said, CESAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; To Hague or Calais takes a waft, There, at Vienna or Versailles He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles ; Then bouses drumly German water, To mak himsel look fair and 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' kintra sports, It wa'd for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, and the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin o'a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor fo❜k. But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them. CESAR. L-d, man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. It's true they need na starve or sweat, Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' gripes an2 granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves 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 acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A kintra lassic at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel: But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; An' e'en 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' wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal portion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out o' sight, An' darker gloaming brought the night! The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood row tin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoiced they were na men but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolved to meet some ither day. DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. SOME books are lies frae end to end, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye The rising moon began to glow'r To keep me sicker: I there wi' something did forgather, A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. "Guid-e'en," quo' I; "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 go back?" * This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. It spak right howe,-" My name is Death, But be na fley'd."-Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath; But tent me, billie: I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!" "Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out-owre my beard." "Well, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; | Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; "Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, An' choke the breath: "Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook'st ta'en up the trade, "Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, That weans haud out their fingers laughin "See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, They hae pierced mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art, And cursed skill, Has made them baith not worth a f―t, Damn'd haet they'll kill. ""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. "Hornbook was 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 pierced the heart Of a kail-runt. *An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. + This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally, a brother of the sovereign order of the ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, sur geon, and physician. Buchan's Domestic Medicine. "E'en them he canna get attended, Alto' their face he ne'er had kend it, Justin a kail-blade, and send it, As soon he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it At once he tells't. "And then a' doctors' saws and whittles, "Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; He has❜t in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please, "Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now,' Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; The creature grain'd an eldrich laugh, "Whare I killed ane a fair strae-death, That Hornbook's skill Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field, 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Ance AULD BRIG. Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep shank, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, NEW BRIG. Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, AULD BRIG. While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. He wander'd out, he knew not where nor why ;) A noted tavern at the auld brig end. + The two steeples. The gos-hawk, or falcon. Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride! Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, NEW BRIG. Fine architecture! trowth, I needs must say't o't, * A noted ford, just above the auld brig. + The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. The source of the river Ayr. § A small landing place above the large kev. |