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A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,

Wha for his friend and comrade had him,

And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,

After fome dog in Highland fang *,

Was made lang fyne,-Lord knows how'lang.

HE was a gafh an' faithful tyke,.

As ever lap a fheugh or dyke,

His honest, fonfie, baws'nt face,

Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
His breaft was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' gloffy black;

His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,

Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a fwirl.

NAE doubt but they were fain o' ither,

An' unco pack an' thick the gither;

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Wi' focial nose whyles fnuff'd an' fnowkit,

Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; Whyles fcour'd awa in lang excurfion,

An' worry'd ither in diverfion;

Until wi' daffin weary grown,

Upon a knowe they fat them down,

And there began a lang digreffion

About the lord's o' the creation.

CESAR.

I'VE aften wonder'd, honeft Luath,

What fort o' life poor dogs like you have;

An' when the gentry's life I faw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

OUR Laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, and a' his ftents:

He rifes when he likes himfel;

His flunkies anfwer at the bell;

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

He draws a bonie filken purfe,

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

FRAE morn to e'en its nought but toiling,

At baking, roafting. frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first are ftechin,
Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' fauce ragouts, and ficklike trashtrie,
That's little fhort o' downright waftrie.
Our Whipper-in, wee blaftit wonner,
Poor worthlefs 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 paft my comprehenfion.

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LUATH.

TROTH, Cæsar, whyles they're fafh't enough;

A cottar howkin in a fheugh,

Wi' dirty ftanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry and fick like,

Himfel, a wife, he thus fuftains,
A fmytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

AN' when they meet wi' fair difafters,
Like lofs o' health, or want o' mafters,
Ye maist wad think a wee touch langer,
An' they maun ftarve o' cauld and hunger:
But, how it comes, I never kend yet,
They're maiftly wonderfu' contented;

An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in fic a way as this is.

CESAR.

CESAR.

But then fee how ye're negleckit,

How huff'd, and cuff'd, and difrefpeckit!
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' cafb,

How they maun thole a factor's fnafh:
He'll ftamp an' threaten, curfe an' fwear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun ftan', wi' afpe&t humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I SEE how folk live that hae riches;
But furely poor folk maun be wretches?

LUATH,

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