THE TWA DOGS.

A TALE.

[The first notice we have of this admired poem is in one of the Bard's letters, dated 17th February, 1786, addressed to his Mauchline friend John Richmond, then in Edinburgh. After mentioning "The Ordination," "Scotch Drink,' "The Cotter's Saturday Night," and "An Address to the Deil," as having been newly composed, he adds:-"I have likewise completed my poem on The Dogs, but have not shown it to the world." This was but a few weeks before sending out his printed proposals for publishing; and we are told that this poem was placed the first in his volume by request of Wilson the printer, who suggested the propriety of placing one of his more important pieces at the beginning. This accords with Gilbert Burns' information, that the tale of the Twa Dogs was composed after the resolution of publishing was almost formed. Robert's favourite dog, Luath, had been killed by the wanton cruelty of some person, the night after his father's death, and the Poet resolved to introduce into his book some composition which would testify his regard for the memory of his quadruped friend.]

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'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 sae duddie,

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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 * 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;

* Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.-(R. B. 1786.)

† Altered, in 1794, to

"Until wi' daffin weary grown,

Upou a knowe they sat them down."

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' 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 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 sight, 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 LONʼON.

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 sae 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-

CESAR.

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,

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