'Twas in the place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name of Auld King Coil, Upon bonny day in June, When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgather'd dance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keep it for his Honor's pleasure; His hair his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shaw d he was nane of Scotland's dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked letter'd braw brass collar, Shaw'd him the gentleman and scholar But though he was of high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he, But wad hae spent an hour caressin E'n wi' a tinkler gypsey's messin: At kick or market, mill or smiddle, Nae tawted tyke though e'er sae duddie, But he was stant't as glad to see him, And stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi him, The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting roving billie, Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang[1], Was made langsyne—Lord kens how lang. He was a gash and 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 touzle back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither And unco pack and thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkitː Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, And worry'd 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 wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have: And when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv'd ava. Our Laird gets in his racket 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 bonny silkyn purse As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; And though the gentry first are stechin, Yet een the ha' fock fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright waistrie, Our whipper-inn, wee blastit wonner, Boor worthless elf, it eats a dinner Better than ony tenant man His Honour has in a' the lan'! And what poor cot-fock put their painch in. I own it's past my comprehension.
LUATH. Trowth. Cæsar. whyles they're fash't enough: A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quary, and sicklike, Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, And nought but his han'-daurg, to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi' sair disasters, Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer, And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger: But how it comes, I never kend yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.
CÆSAR. But then, to see how ye're neglectit, How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespectit! L—d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, as for cattle; They gang as saucy by poor fock, As I wad by a stinking brock. I've notic'd on our Laird's court day, And 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, and threaten, curse and swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan' wi' aspect humble, And hear it a', and fear and trembleǃ I see how fock live that hae riches; But surely poor folk maun be wretches.
LUATH. They're nae 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 and fortune are sae guided, They 're ay in less or mair provided; And tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their gushie weans, and faithfu' wives; The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fireside. And whiles twalpennieworth 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, And ferlie at the at the fock in Lon'on. As black-fac'd Hallomas returns, They get the jovial, rantin kirns, When rural life, o' ever station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, and 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, And sheds a heart-inspiring stream: The lunting pipe, and sneeshing mill, Are handed round wi' right gude will; The cantie auld focks, cracking crouse; The young anes rantin thro' the house— My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit 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 fawsent fowk, 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.
CÆSAR. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain's gude!—gude faith I doubt; Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, And saying Ay or No's they bid him! At Operas and Plays parading, Montgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or, maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, To learn bon-ton, and see the warl. There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars, and fight wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Wh—re-hunting groves o' myrtles. Then bonses drumly German-water, To mak himsel look fair and fatter, And clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of carnival signoras. For Britain's gude! for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, fewd, and faction.
LUATH. Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten and harrass'd For gear to gang that gate at last? O wade they stay aback frae courts, And please themselves wi' country sports, It wad for every ane be better, The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breaking o' their timmer, Or speaking lightly of their lummer, Or shooting o' a hare or moorcock; The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor fock. But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great focks life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't needna fear them.
CÆSAR. L—d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. It's true, they needna starve or sweat, Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, And fill auld age wi' grips and granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ill perplex them, They mak enow themselves to vex them; And aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the plough, His acre's till'd, he's right enough: A country lassie at her wheel, Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel: But Gentlemen and Ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want of wark are curst! They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy, Tho' deil haet ails then, yet uneasy. Their days insipid, dull and tasteless: Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless; And ev'n their sports, their balls and races, Their galloping through public places, There's sic parade, sic pomp and art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party-matches, Then souther a' in deep debauches! Ae night they're mad wi' drink and whoring, 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 deils and jades thegither. Whyles owre the wee bit cup and platie, They sip the scandal potion pretty: Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stack yard, And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man and woman By this, the sum was out o' sight, And darker gloamin brought the night: The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoic'd they werena men, but dogs: And each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
