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An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye 're His locked, lettered, braw brass collar

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'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,
Forgathered 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,
Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

Showed him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride-nae pride had he;
But wad ha'e spent an hour caressin'
Even with a tinkler-gipsy'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,
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' faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuffed and snow.
kit;

Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;

Whyles scoured awa' in lang excursion,
An' worried 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 wondered, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you

have;

An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies lived ava.

Our Laird gets in his rackèd 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 bonnie silken purse

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,

The yellow-lettered 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 even the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragoûts, 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' 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 kenned it,
They 're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then to see how ye 're negleckit, How huffed, and cuffed, and disrespeckit!

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 stinking brock.
I've noticed, 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!

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch I see how folk live that ha'e riches;

in,

I own its past my comprehension.

But surely poor folk maun be wretches.

LUATH.

LUATH.

They're no sae wretched 's ane wad think;

Trowth, Casar, whyles they're fash't Though constantly on poortith's brink :

eneugh;

A cotter howkin' in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like.
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han'-darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

They 're sae accustomed wi' the sight,
The view o't gi'es them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They 're aye in less or mair provided;
An' though fatigued wi' close employ.
ment,

A blink o' rest 's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives,

Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;

CÆSAR.

The prattling things are just their pride, For Britain's guid!-guid faith, I doubt Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:

That sweetens a' their fireside.

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 and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' every 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 winds;
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,
The young anes rantin' through the
house,-

My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy ha'e barkit wi' them.

Still it's owre true that ye ha'e said,
Sic game is now owre aften played.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'-

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 takes a wast,
To make a tour, and tak' 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 takes the rout,
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter,
And 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' haràssed
For fear to gang that gate at last?

O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themsel's wi' country sports,
It would for every ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them 's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breaking o'er their timmer,
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they 're ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folks' life 's a life o' pleasure!
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't needna fear them.

CÆSAR.

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare 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' grips an' granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak' enow themsel's to vex them;
An' aye the less they ha'e to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them;
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acres tilled, he 's right eneugh;

A country girl 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 de'il haet hails 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

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 de'ils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion 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 unhanged black-
guard.

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 hummed wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin' 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.

DESPONDENCY.

AN ODE

[Penned in great anguish of mind and heart during the summer of 1786, when the Poet's brain was nearly distraught about Jean Armour, her father having destroyed their left-handed marriage-lines and denied the wrong-doer all chance of making the only reparation then in any way possible.]

OPPRESSED with grief, oppressed with

care,

A burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh:

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