THE TWA DOGS, A TALE. Robert Burns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T91548 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, BY ROBERT BURNS. Kilmarnock printed by John Wilson, M,DCC,LXXXVI. 1786 pp. [9]-21. 240p.; 8⁰.

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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 .