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A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,

And in his freaks had Luuts ca'd him,


After some dog in Highland sang *
Was made lang syne,-Lord knows how'lang.

He was a gash 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' gloffy black;
His gawcie 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 the gither;

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Cuchulling's dog in-Ossian's Fingal.

Wi' social nose whyles snuff*d an? snowkit, Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour'd awa in lang excurfion,

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 tord's o' the creation.


I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,

What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw,

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

He rises when he likes himsel;

His funkies 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,

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Wi' sauce ragouts, and ficklike trashtrie,
That's little lhort 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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TROTH, Cæsar, whyles they're fasa'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,

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; A smytrie o' wee duddie weads,

An'nought but his han' darg, 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 maift 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 wonderfu' contented;

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


But then see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckitt
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' calb,
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 fan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an’tremble !

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I SEE how folk live that hae riches;

But surely poor folk maun be wretches ?


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