Chapter IV: Part 4

But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs,
Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

AULD ROB MORRIS

There’s auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He’s the king o’ gude fellows and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She’s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She’s sweet as the ev’ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e’e.

But oh! she’s an heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me;
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!

POORTITH CAULD

O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An’ ’twerena for my Jeanie.

O why should fate sic pleasure have
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune’s shining?

This warld’s wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,—
O fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o’t.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o’erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?

How blest the simple cotter’s fate!
He woos his artless dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make him eerie.

O why should fate, etc.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day
Ye would na been sae shy;
For laik o’ gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
But fient a hair care I.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o’ clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene’er ye like to try.

But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean,
Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu’ dry.

But if he hae the name o’ gear,
Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

O thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damnèd bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeal!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far kenn’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’, tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles rangin’ like a roarin’ lion
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin’;
Whyles on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin’,
Tirlin’ the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin’,
Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon
To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she’s heard you bummin’,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin’, thro’ the boortrees comin’,
Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary windy winter night
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin’ light,
Wi’ you mysel I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight
Wi’ waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch stoor ‘quaick, quaick,’
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake
On whistlin’ wings.

Let warlocks grim an’ wither’d hags
Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs, an’ dizzy crags
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

Thence country wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen
By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse;
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin’ icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ ’nighted travelers are allur’d
To their destruction.

An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.

When masons’ mystic word an’ grip
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
And all the soul of love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog.
An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be you fa!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’,
While scabs an’ blotches did him gall
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin’ fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin’,
A certain Bardie’s rantin’, drinkin’,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin’,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’,
An’ cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake:
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!

O MAY, THY MORN

O May, thy morn was ne’er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o’ December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber;
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.

And here’s to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum!
And here’s to them that wish us weel,
May a’ that’s guid watch o’er them!
And here’s to them we dare na tell,
The dearest o’ the quorum!

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Cauld is the e’enin’ blast
O’ Boreas o’er the pool,
And dawin’ it is dreary
When birks are bare at Yule.

O bitter blaws the e’enin’ blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.

Ne’er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o’er the hill,
But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey
Gat grist to her mill.

WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O’T

First when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we’re married—spier nae mair—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature’s child—
Wiser men than me’s beguil’d;
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we ’gree,
I care na by how few may see—
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Wha I wish were maggots’ meat,
Dish’d up in her winding sheet,
I could write—but Meg may see’t;
Whistle owre the lave o’t.

HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE

Husband, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Tho’ I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, sir.

‘One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse Nancy?’

If ’tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I’ll desert my sov’reign lord,
And so good-bye allegiance!

‘Sad shall I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy!
Yet I’ll try to make a shift,
My spouse Nancy.’

My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I’m near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
Think how you will bear it.

‘I will hope and trust in Heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse Nancy.’

Well, sir, from the silent dead
Still I’ll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.

‘I’ll wed another, like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse Nancy.’

HEY FOR A LASS WI’ A TOCHER

Awa wi’ your witchcraft o’ beauty’s alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
O, gie me the lass that has acres o’ charms,
O, gie me the lass wi’ the weel-stockit farms.

Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher, then hey, for a lass wi’
a tocher,
Then hey, for a lass wi’ a tocher—the nice yellow guineas
for me!

Your beauty’s a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
But the rapturous charm o’ the bonnie green knowes!
Ilk spring they’re new deckit wi’ bonnie white yowes.

And e’en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
The brightest o’ beauty may cloy, when possest;
But the sweet yellow darlings wi’ Geordie imprest—
The langer ye hae them, the mair they’re carest.

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster guid,
Could stown a clue wi’ ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

She has an e’e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller;
A whiskin beard about her mou’,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

She’s bow-hough’d, she’s hein-shinn’d,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She’s twisted right, she’s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o’ that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An’ wi’ her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie’s wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi’ a hushion:
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET?

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet?
Or art thou wakin’, I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and foot,
And I would fain be in, jo.

O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity’s sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo.

Thou hear’st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks thro’ the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.

The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa’s;
The cauldness o’ thy heart’s the cause
Of a’ my grief and pain, jo.

HER ANSWER

O tell na me o’ wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi’ cauld disdain!
Gae back the gait ye cam again,
I winna let you in, jo.

I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a’ this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand’rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That’s trusted faithless man, jo.

The sweetest flower that deck’d the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed;
Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.

The bird that charm’d his summer-day
Is now the cruel fowler’s prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate’s the same, jo.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE

My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phœbus’ scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowrin’ trouts,
That thro’ my waters play,
If, in their random wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I’m scorching up so shallow,
They’re left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,
As poet Burns came by,
That to a bard I should be seen
Wi’ half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was, he shor’d me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o’er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho’ I say’t mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You’ll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow’rs;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat
From prone-descending show’rs.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care:
The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav’n to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms,
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking dewy lawn,
And misty mountain gray;
Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro’ the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o’erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows’ wat’ry bed!
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster’s nest,
The close embow’ring thorn.

So may Old Scotia’s darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour’d native land!
So may thro’ Albion’s farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses
The grace be—‘Athole’s honest men,
And Athole’s bonnie lasses!’

YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER

Loud blaw the frosty breezes,
The snaws the mountains cover;
Like winter on me seizes,
Since my young Highland Rover
Far wanders nations over.
Where’er he go, where’er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden,
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon!

The trees, now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging,
The birdies, dowie moaning,
Shall a’ be blythely singing,
And every flower be springing:
Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When, by his mighty warden,
My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.

MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains, high cover’d with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
]

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS

The lovely lass o’ Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e’en and morn she cries, ‘alas!’
And aye the saut tear blins her ee:
‘Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu’ day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

‘Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s ee!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.’

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

THE LASS O’ BALLOCHMYLE

’Twas even—the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyrs wanton’d round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the Mavis sang,
All nature listening seem’d the while:
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray’d,
My heart rejoiced in nature’s joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning’s eye,
Her hair like nature’s vernal smile;
Perfection whisper’d, passing by,
Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro’ the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild:
But Woman, Nature’s darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Ev’n there her other works are foil’d
By the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

O had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland’s plain!
Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine,
With the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD

He’s gane, he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e’er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn
By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil’d.

Ye hills, near neibors o’ the starns,
That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns,
Where echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming strang wi’ hasty stens
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny tree,
The first o’ flow’rs.

At dawn when ev’ry grassy blade
Droops with a diamond at his head,
At ev’n when beans their fragrance shed
I’ th’ rustling gale,
Ye maukins, whiddin’ thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;
Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood—
He’s gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o’ day,
’Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay;
And, when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore,
Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r,
What time the moon wi’ silent glowr
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour
Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!
Oft have ye heard my canty strains;
But now, what else for me remains
But tales of woe?
And frae my een the drapping rains
Maun ever flow.

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay green flow’ry tresses shear
For him that’s dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the naked world declare
The worth we’ve lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,
Ne’er to return.

O Henderson! the man! the brother!
And art thou gone, and gone for ever?
And hast thou crost that unknown river,
Life’s dreary bound?
Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around?

Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great,
In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!
But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best fellow’s fate
Eer lay in earth.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O

When o’er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow’d field
Return sae dowf and wearie O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi’ dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I’d rove, and ne’er be eerie O,
If thro’ that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.
Altho’ the night were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er sae wearie O,
I’d meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo’es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o’ gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

BESSY AND HER SPINNIN’ WHEEL

O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel,
O leeze me on my rock and reel;
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me fiel and warm at e’en!
I’ll set me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi’ content, and milk and meal—
O leeze me on my spinnin’ wheel.

On ilka hand the burnies trot,
And meet below my theekit cot;
The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite,
Alike to screen the birdie’s nest,
And little fishes’ caller rest:
The sun blinks kindly in the biel’,
Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And echo cons the doolfu’ tale;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither’s lays;
The craik amang the claver hay,
The paitrick whirrin’ o’er the ley,
The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel.

Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,
O wha wad leave this humble state,
For a’ the pride of a’ the great?
Amid their flaring, idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel?

THE GALLANT WEAVER

Where Cart rins rowin’ to the sea,
By mony a flower and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver.

Oh I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear’d my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign’d my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that has the land;
But to my heart I’ll add my hand,
And gie it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees rejoice in opening flowers;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I’ll love my gallant weaver.

EPPIE ADAIR

An’ O! my Eppie,
My jewel, my Eppie!
Wha wadna be happy
Wi’ Eppie Adair?
By love, and by beauty,
By law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to
My Eppie Adair!

An’ O! my Eppie,
My jewel, my Eppie!
Wha wadna be happy
Wi’ Eppie Adair?
A’ pleasure exile me,
Dishonour defile me,
If e’er I beguile thee,
My Eppie Adair!

FOR WEANS AND WIFE

(TO DR. BLACKLOCK)

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn’d it still, your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to;
Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye,
And then ye’ll do....

But what d’ye think, my trusty fier,
I’m turn’d a gauger—Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,
Ye’ll now disdain me!
And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha by Castalia’s wimplin’ streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,
They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—
I need na vaunt,
But I’ll sned besoms—thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.

Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care!
I’m weary sick o’t late and air!
Not but I hae a richer share
Than mony ithers;
But why should ae man better fare,
And a’ men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan
A lady fair;
Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme
(I’m scant o’ verse, and scant o’ time)—
To make a happy fire-side clime
To weans and wife,
That’s the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

CROWDIE EVER MAIR

O that I had ne’er been married,
I wad never had nae care;
Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns,
An’ they cry “crowdie!” ever mair.

Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,
Three times crowdie in a day;
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,
Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.

Waefu want and hunger fley me,
Glowrin’ by the hallen en’;
Sair I fecht them at the door,
But aye I’m eerie they come ben.

‘BRAW SOBER LESSONS’

(EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND)

I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye’ll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev’n when your end’s attained;
And a’ your views may come to nought,
Where ev’ry nerve is strained.

I’ll no say men are villains a’;
The real harden’d wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:
But oh! mankind are unco weak,
An’ little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
It’s rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure;
For still th’ important end of life
They equally may answer.
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neibor’s part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han’, your story tell,
When wi’ a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel’s ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro’ ev’ry other man
Wi’ sharpen’d sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o’ weel-plac’d love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
Tho’ naething should divulge it:
I wave the quantum o’ the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But oh! it hardens a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune’s golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev’ry wile
That’s justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause—
Debar a’ side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere
Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne’er with wits profane to range
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist laugh’s a poor exchange
For Deity offended.

When ranting round in pleasure’s ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or, if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n,
A conscience but a canker—
A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n
Is sure a noble anchor.

Adieu, dear amiable youth!
Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
May prudence, fortitude, and truth
Erect your brow undaunting.
In ploughman phrase, God send you speed
Still daily to grow wiser;
And may ye better reck the rede
Than ever did th’ adviser!

TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill;
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need;
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi’ ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin’, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o’er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:
Thro’ bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed—
The trembling earth resounds his tread!
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll mak it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

BANNOCKS O’ BARLEY

Bannocks o’ bear meal,
Bannocks o’ barley;
Here’s to the Highlandman’s
Bannocks o’ barley.
Wha in a brulzie
Will first cry a parley?
Never the lads wi’
The bannocks o’ barley.

Bannocks o’ bear meal,
Bannocks o’ barley;
Here’s to the lads wi’
The bannocks o’ barley;
Wha in his wae-days
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi’
The bannocks o’ barley.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE

Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body;
Jenny’s seldom dry;
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

Coming through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye;
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen;
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the world ken?

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN

The wind blew hollow frae the hills;
By fits the sun’s departing beam
Look’d on the fading yellow woods
That waved o’er Lugar’s winding stream.
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,
Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail’d his lord,
Whom death had all untimely taen.

He lean’d him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould’ring down with years;
His locks were bleachèd white wi’ time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi’ tears;
And as he touch’d his trembling harp,
And as he tun’d his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro’ their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

‘Ye scatter’d birds that faintly sing,
The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a’ the winds
The honours of the agèd year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye’ll charm the ear and e’e;
But nocht in all revolving time
Can gladness bring again to me.

‘I am a bending agèd tree,
That long has stood the wind and rain;
But now has come a cruel blast,
And my last hold of earth is gane:
Nae leaf o’ mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And others plant them in my room.

‘I’ve seen so many changefu’ years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown:
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev’d,
I bear alane my lade o’ care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Lie a’ that would my sorrows share.

‘And last (the sum of a’ my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flow’r amang our barons bold,
His country’s pride, his country’s stay:
In weary being now I pine
For a’ the life of life is dead,
And hope has left my agèd ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.

‘Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair;
Awake, resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,
Accept this tribute from the bard
Thou brought from fortune’s mirkest gloom.

‘In poverty’s low barren vale,
Thick mists obscure involv’d me round;
Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye,
No ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found’st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air;
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.

‘O why has worth so short a date
While villains ripen grey with time?
Must thou, the noble, gen’rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood’s hardy prime?
Why did I live to see that day,
A day to me so full of woe?
O had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!

‘The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a’ that thou hast done for me!’

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH

O Thou unknown Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander’d in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;
As something, loudly in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know’st that Thou hast formèd me
With passions wild and strong;
And list’ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,
Do thou, All-Good! for such Thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err’d,
No other plea I have,
But Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between;
Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms!
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or Death’s unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, ‘Forgive my foul offence!’
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue’s way;
Again in folly’s path might go astray;
Again exalt the brute, and sink the man;
Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter Heavenly mercy’s plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,
To rule their torrent in th’ allowèd line;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

A BARD’S EPITAPH

Is there a whim-inspirèd fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,
Wild as the wave;
Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain’d his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;
Know prudent cautious self-control
Is wisdom’s root.

THE BRAES O’ BALLOCHMYLE

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decayed on Catrine lee,
Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sickened on the e’e.
Thro’ faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel in beauty’s bloom the whyle,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
‘Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle!

‘Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye’ll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye’ll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel, the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!’

Thro’ faded groves Maria sang,
. . . . . . . .
Fareweel the braes o’ Ballochmyle.]

AY WAUKIN, O

Simmer’s a pleasant time,
Flow’rs of ev’ry colour;
The water rins o’er the heugh,
And I long for my true lover.

Ay waukin, O,
Waukin still and wearie:
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.

When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I’m eerie;
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.

Lanely night comes on,
A’ the lave are sleepin’,
I think on my bonnie lad,
And I bleer my een wi’ greetin’.

Ay waukin, O,
Waukin still and wearie:
Sleep I can get nane
For thinking on my dearie.

IN EVIL DAYS

(FROM A LETTER TO GRAHAM OF FINTRY, 1791)

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear!
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust—
Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears.
Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r!
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare!
Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown,
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!

THE POETIC DAYSPRING

(FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER)

I mind it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young and blate,
An’ first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh,
An’ tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn,—
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon’d was,
And wi’ the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,
Wearing the day awa,—

Ev’n then a wish (I mind its power!)
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake,
Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,
An’ spar’d the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,
My envy e’er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o’ sang
In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that hairst I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous’d the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I firèd, inspirèd,
At ev’ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I fearèd aye to speak....

SCOTS WHA HAE

ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour!
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland’s King and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’?
Let him follow me!

By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do or die!

FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp;
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.

What tho’ on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, and a’ that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their tinsel show, and a’ that;
The honest man, tho’ e’er sae poor,
Is King o’ men for a’ that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that:
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,
Are higher rank than a’ that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that;
That sense and worth, o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
It’s coming yet, for a’ that,
That man to man the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that.

HERE’S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT’S AWA

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa;
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa’!

It’s guid to be merry and wise,
It’s guid to be honest and true,
It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.

May liberty meet wi’ success!
May prudence protect her frae evil!
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,
And wander their way to the devil!

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa;
Here’s a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie,
That lives at the lug o’ the law!

Here’s freedom to him that wad read,
Here’s freedom to him that wad write!
There’s nane ever fear’d that the truth should be heard,
But they wham the truth wad indite.

Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s Chieftain M’Leod, a Chieftain worth gowd,
Tho’ bred among mountains o’ snaw!

DOES HAUGHTY GAUL

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, Sir,
There’s wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!

O let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in an unco loon
And wi’ a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!

The kettle o’ the kirk and state,
Perhaps a clout may fail in’t;
But deil a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t.
Our father’s blude the kettle bought,
An’ wha wad dare to spoil it?
By heavens! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his true-sworn brother,
Who’d set the mob aboon the throne,—
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing _God save the King_!
Shall hang as high’s the steeple;
But while we sing _God save the King_!
We’ll not forget the people!

AULD LANG SYNE

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot
Sin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i’ the burn,
From morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Longer Poems

THE TWA DOGS

’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s Isle,
That bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearin’ through the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that werena thrang at hame,
Forgather’d ance upon a time.

The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,
Was keepit for his Honour’s pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His lockèd, letter’d, braw brass collar,
Shew’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 ane hour caressin’
E’en wi’ a tinkler-gipsy’s messan:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,
But he wad stand as glad to see him,
An’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.

The tither was a ploughman’s collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie;
Wha for his friend and 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’ faithfu’ tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke;
His honest, sonsie, bawsent face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his tousie back
Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;
His gawsie 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 snowkit;
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,
And 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 of the creation.

CAESAR

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 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 bonny 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;
And though the gentry first are stechin’,
Yet e’en 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.

LUATH

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh;
A cottar 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 duddy weans,
And nought but his han’-darg 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 kent yet,
They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CAESAR