'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' auld king COIL,
Upon a bonie 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 Ceasar,
Was keepet for his Honor's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpet some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass-collar
Show'd him the gentleman an' scholar;
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride nae pride had he,
But wad hae spent an hour caressan,
Ev'n wi' a Tinkler-gipsey's messan:
At Kirk or Market, Mill or Smiddie,
Nae tawtied 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 his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highlan Sang,
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,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his towzie back,
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre 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 an' snowcket;
Whyles mice an' modeworts they howcket;
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,
Till tir'd at last wi' mony a farce,
They sat them down upon their arse:
An' 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 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, 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 steghan,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their peghan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,
That 's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee, blastiet 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, Ceasar, whyles they 're fash't enough;
A Cotter howckan in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggan a dyke,
Bairan a quarry, an' sic like,
Himself, 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' raep.
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 and hunger:
But how it comes, I never kend yet,
They 're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then, to see how ye're negleket,
How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeket!
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 stinkan 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 stand, 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!
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 gies them little fright.
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They 're ay in less or mair provided;
An' tho' fatigu'd 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' whyles, 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, rantan 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 luntan pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie, auld folks, crackan crouse,
The young anes rantan thro' the house
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barket wi' them.
Still it 's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd;
There 's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favor wi' some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin
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 aye or no 's they bid him:
At Operas an' Plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or maybe, in a frolic daft,
To HAGUE or CALAIS taks a waft,
To make a tour an' take 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 taks the rout,
To thrum guittarres 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 Signioras.
An' purge the bitter ga's an' cankers
O' curst Venetian bores an' chancres.
For Britain's guid! For her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud an' faction.
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' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantan, ramblan billies,
Fient haet o' them 's illhearted fellows;
Except for breakin o' their timmer,
Or speaking 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 Cesar,
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.
Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them!
It 's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' Winter's cauld, or Summer'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 Colledges an' Schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them;
An' ay 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 enough,
A countra girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen 's done, she 's unco weel;
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark they ‘re 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 thro’ public places
There 's sic parade, sic pomp an' art,
The joy can hardly 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 the gither,
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbet leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.
There 's some exceptions, man an' woman;
But this is Gentry's life in common.
By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night:
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,
The kye stood rowtan' i' the loan;
When up they gat, an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.