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THE TWA DOGS.
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Our laird gets in his racked 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 bonie silken purse As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev’n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like 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.
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'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
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 nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin: At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes an’ hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither,
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Cæsar. But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! 1-d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking 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!
They Why They
Orle Pore Stake Ad'
I see how folk live that hae riches;
There, at Vienna or Versailles, But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
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, Though constantly on poortith's brink:
Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
Then bouses drumly German water, The view o't gies them little fright.
To mak himsel look fair and fatter, Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
An' clear the consequential sorrows, They're ay in less or mair provided;
Love-gifts of carnival signoras. An' though fatigu'd wi' close employment,
For Britain's guid! for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
Hech man! dear sirs ! is that the gate That sweetens a' their fire-side.
They waste sae mony a braw estate! An' whyles twalpennie-worth o'nappie
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd Can make the bodies unco happy;
For gear to gang that gate at last! They lay aside their private cares,
O would they stay aback frae courts, To mind the kirk and state affairs:
An' please themselves wi' countra sports, They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! Or tell what new taxation's comin,
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows! As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
Except for breakin o' their timmer, They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, When rural life, o' every station,
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, Unite in common recreation :
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. Love blinks, wit slaps, and social mirth,
But will you tell me, Master Cæsar, Forgets there's care upon the earth.
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? That merry day the year begins,
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, They bar the door on frosty winds;
The vera thought o't need na fear them.
L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
It's true, they need na starve or sweat, The young ones rantin through the house
Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; My heart has been sae fain to see them,
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: Still its owre true that ye hae said,
But human bodies are sic fools, Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
For a' their colleges and schools, There's monie a creditable stock
That when nae real ills perplex them, O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
They make enow themsels to vex them; Are riven out baith root and branch,
An'ay the less they hae to start them, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
In like proportion less will hurt them. Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
A country-fellow at the pleugh, In favour wi' some gentle master,
His acres tillid, he's right enough; Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin,
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But gentlemen, an'ladies warst,
Wi' ev'ndown want o'wark are curst. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; For Britain's guid! guid faith: I doubt it.
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy :
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless:
An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races, Or, maybe, in a frolic daft,
Their galloping through public places. To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Ae night thy're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Niest day their life is past enduring.
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due,
Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
“ An’ mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play:
An'o! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An’mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door ;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, The bum-clock humm’d wi' lazy drone;
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, The kye stood rowtin i' the loan:
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in, Jenny's e'e, and Aush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny haflins is afraid to speak;
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta’en;
The father craks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi’joy, The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfa'an’ sae grave;
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the And weary, o'er the moor, his course does home
lave. ward bend.
O happy love! where love like this is found! At length his lonely cot appears in view,
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare-
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'nAn' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
ing gale." Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in,
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
A wretch ! a villain! lost to love and truth!
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ?
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction
wild! Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud:
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
Butchiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur
springs, He wales a portion with judicious care ;
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: And "let us worship God!” he says, with solemn air. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
“ An honest man's the noblest work of God:" They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
And certes, in fair virtue's heav’nly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; For whom my warmest wish to hearen is sent!
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet con-
And, O! may Heaven 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'disle.
O thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'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, How he, who bore in heav'n the second name,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert:
But still the patriot and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF
GLENCAIRN. ven's command.
The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Look'd on the fading yellow woods
That thus they all shall meet in future days: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,
Laden with years and meikle pain, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Whom death had all untimely ta'en.
He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
His locks were bleached white wi' time, In all the pomp of method, and of art,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears! When men display to congregations wide,
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
To echo bore the notes alang. But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; “ Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The mother may forget the child The honours of the aged year!
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; A few short months, and glad and gay,
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me!"
HIGHLAND MARY. “ I am a bending aged tree,
TUNE-" Katherine Ogie." That long has stood the wind and rain;
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around But now has come a cruel blast,
The castle o' Montgomery, And my last hald of earth is gane:
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Your waters never drumlie! Nae summer sun exalt my bloom;
There simmer first unfald her robes, But I maun lie before the storm,
And there the langest tarry ; And ithers plant them in my room.
For there I took the last fareweel “ I've seen sae monie changefu' years,
O'my sweet Highland Mary. On earth I am a stranger grown;
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, I wander in the ways of men,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; Alike unknowing and unknown:
As underneath their fragrant shade Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd,
I clasp'd her to my bosom! I bear alane my lade o' care,
The golden hours on angel wings For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Flew o'er me and my dearie; Lie a' that would my sorrows share.
For dear to me, as light and life, “ And last (the sum of a' my griefs!)
Was my sweet Highland Mary. My noble master lies in clay;
Wi'mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, The flow'r amang our barons bold,
Our parting was su' tender; His country's pride, his country's stay:
And, pledging aft to meet again, In weary being now I pine,
We tore oursels asunder; For a' the life of life is dead,
But oh! fell death's untimely frost, And hope has left my aged ken,
That nipt my flower sae early! On forward wing for ever fled.
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, “ Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
That wraps my Highland Mary! The voice of woe and wild despair!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, Awake, resound thy latest lay,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! Then sleep in silence evermair!
And clos'd, for ay, the sparkling glance, And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That dwelt on me sae kindly! That fillest an untimely tomb,
And mouldering now in silent dust, Accept this tribute from the bard
That heart that lo'ed me dearly! Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary. “ In poverty's low barren vale,
Thick mists, obscure, involved me round;
TO A MOUSE,
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, “O! why has worth so short a date,
Wi' bickerin brattle! While villains ripen grey with time!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Wi” murdoring pattle! Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! Why did I live to see that day?
I'm truly sorry man's dominion A day to me so full of woe!
Has broken nature's social union, O! had I met the mortal shaft
An' justifies that ill opinion, Which laid my benefactor low!
Which maks thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, “ The bridegroom may forget the bride
whyles, but thou may thieve; That on his head an hour has been;
What then ? poor beastie, thou malu live!
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE
I doubt na,