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A rhyming, ranting, raving billie;
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luutb ca'd him,
After fome dog in Highland sang ",
Was made lang syne,-Lord knows how'lang.

He was a gain an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a fheugh or dyke,

His honest, fonfie, baws'nt face,

Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back

Weel clad wi' coat o' glofly black;
His gawcie tail, wi’ upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl..

Nac doubt but they were fain o'ither, An' unco pack an' thick the gither;

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# Cuchulling's dog in-Ossian's Fingal.

Wi' social nore whyles snuff d an' snowkit,
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;

Until wi' daffin weary grown,

Upon a knowe they fat them down,
And there began a lang digression

About the lord's o'tbe creation.

CÆSAR.

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,

What fort 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 kain, and a' his stents : He rifes when he likes himsel;

His flunkies answer at the bell;

He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse;

He draws a bonie filken purse,

As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter d Geordie kecks.

FRAE morn to e'en its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting frying, boiling ; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet e’en thie ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright waftrie. Our Whipper-in, wee blaftit 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 ing.. I own it's past.my comprehension.

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ĻU ATH.

TROTH, Cesar, whyles they're fash't enough;

A cottar howkin in a fheugh,
Wi’ dirty ftanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry and fick like,

Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, i A smytrie o' wee duddie weaos,

An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

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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 kend yet,
They're maistly wonderfucontented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,

Are bred in fic a way as this is.

CESARE

CÆSAR.

BUT then see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!

L-d, man, our gentry care as little

For delvers, ditchers, an' fic cattle;
They gang as faucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day,

An' mony a time my heart's been wae,

Poor tenant bodies, fcant 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

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