Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
[Of this poem Gilbert Burns says:-"The Tale of Twa Dogs' was composed after the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert had a dog, which he called Luath, that was a great favourite. The dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of some person the night before my father's death. Robert said to me that he should like to confer such immortality as he could bestow on his old friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to introduce something into the book, under the title of 'Stanzas to the Memory of a Quadruped Friend;' but this plan was given up for the tale as it now stands."]
"TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,'
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang2 at hame,
Forgathered ance upon a time.
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shewed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit 3 some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.*
His locked, lettered, braw brass collar
Shewed him the gentleman and scholar:
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin'
Even with a tinkler-gipsy's messin.5
Kyle, or Coil, is the centre district of Ayrshire; so called from Coilus, King of the Picts.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted' tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stant as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,3
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,5
Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie 10 tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies "wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuffed and snowkit;
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scoured awa in lang excursion,
An' worryed 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.
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,'
The yellow-lettered Geordie keeks."
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' though the gentry first are stechin,
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragoûts, and sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,5
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.
Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they 're fash't enough;
A cotter howkin 6 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 duddie weans,
An' nought but his han'-darg,10 to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape."
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 kenned it,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An buirdly 12 chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huffed, and cuffed, and disrespeckit!
Lord, man! our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinking brock.13
I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maunt 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
They're nae sae wretched 's ane wad think;
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustomed with the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
An' though fatigued 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 fireside.
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 and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on.
As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,9
When rural life, o' every station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
Seize their goods. 6 Ale.
8 October 31.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty winds;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,i
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin2 pipe, an' sneeshin mill,3
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie1 auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes rantin' through 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 played.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
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'.
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, and 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 guitars, and fecht wi' nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles:
Then bouses drumlys German water,
To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!—for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
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