THE
TWA
DOGS
,
A
TALE
.
'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
Cæsar
Was
keepet
for
His
Honor's
pleasure
;
His
hair
,
his
size
,
his
mouth
,
his
lugs
,
Shew'd
he
was
nane
o'
Scotland's
dogs
,
But
whalpet
some
place
far
abroad
,
Where
sailors
gang
to
fish
for
Cod
.
His
locked
,
letter'd
,
braw
brass-collar
Shew'd
him
the
gentleman
an'
scholar
;
But
tho'
he
was
o'
high
degree
,
The
fient
a
pride
na
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
tawted
tyke
,
tho'
e'er
fae
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
Cuchullin's
dog
in
Ossian's
Fingal
.
Highland
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'
snowket
;
Whyles
mice
and
modewurks
they
howket
;
Whyles
scour'd
awa
in
lang
excursion
,
An'
worry'd
ither
in
diversion
;
Till
tir'd
at
last
wi'
mony
a
farce
,
They
set
them
down
upon
their
arse
,
An'
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
;
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
een
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
,
blastet
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
.
LUATH
.
Trowth
,
Cæsar
,
whyles
their
fash't
enough
;
A
Cotter
howkan
in
a
sheugh
,
Wi'
dirty
stanes
biggan
a
dyke
,
Bairan
a
quarry
,
an'
sic
like
,
Himsel
,
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'
fair
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
kent
yet
,
They're
maistly
wonderfu'
contented
;
An'
buirdly
chiels
,
and
clever
hizzies
,
Are
bred
in
sic
a
way
as
this
is
.
CÆSAR
But
then
,
to
see
how
ye're
negleket
,
How
huff'd
,
an'
cuff'd
,
an'
disrespeket
!
L
—
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
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
stan'
,
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
!
LUATH
.
They're
no
sae
wretched
's
ane
wad
think
;
Tho'
constantly
on
poortith's
brink
,
They're
sae
accustom'd
wi'
the
fight
,
The
view
o't
gies
them
little
fright
.
Then
chance
and
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
fae
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
an'
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
—
CÆSAR
.
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
takes
a
waft
,
To
make
a
tour
an'
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
guittars
an'
fecht
wi'
nowt
;
Or
down
Italian
Vista
startles
,
Wh
—
re-hunting
amang
groves
o'
myrtles
Then
bowses
drumlie
German-water
,
To
mak
himsel
look
fair
and
fatter
,
An'
purge
the
bitter
ga's
an'
cankers
,
O'
curst
Venetian
b
—
res
an'
ch
—
ncres
.
For
Britain's
guid
!
for
her
destruction
!
Wi'
dissipation
,
feud
an'
faction
!
LUATH
Hech
man
!
dear
sirs
!
is
that
the
gate
,
They
waste
fae
mony
a
braw
estate
!
Are
we
sae
foughten
and
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
ill
hearted
fellows
;
Except
for
breakin
o'
their
timmer
,
Or
speakin
lightly
o'
their
Limmer
,
Or
shootin
of
a
hare
or
moorcock
,
The
ne'er-a-bit
they're
ill
to
poor
folk
.
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
.
CÆSAR
.
L
—
d
man
,
were
ye
but
whyles
where
I
am
,
The
gentles
ye
wad
neer
envy
them
!
It's
true
,
they
need
na
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
eneugh
;
A
country
girl
at
her
wheel
,
Her
dizzen's
done
,
she's
unco
weel
;
But
Gentlemen
,
an'
Ladies
warst
,
Wi'
ev'n
down
want
o'
wark
are
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
scarcely
reach
the
heart
.
The
Men
cast
out
in
party-matches
,
Then
sowther
a'
in
deep
debauches
.
Aenight
,
they're
mad
wi'
drink
an'
wh
—
ring
,
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
thegither
.
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
ony
unhang'd
blackguard
.
There's
some
exceptions
,
man
an'
woman
;
But
this
is
Gentry's
life
in
common
.
By
this
,
the
fun
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
off
his
several
way
,
Resolv'd
to
meet
some
ither
day
.