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THE TWA DOGS,

A TALE.

"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 thrang at hame, Forgather'd 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, Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Show'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, na pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, E'en wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him, And 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,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.

His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither; Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and 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 sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation.

CESAR.

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 kain, and a' his stents;

*Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.

He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
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 letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's naught but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' though the gentry first are stechin, Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sicklike trashtrie, That's little short o' downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit 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 in,

I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fash't enough;
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,

Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' naught 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 maist wad think, a wee touch langer, An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger; But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, They're maistly wonderfu' contented; An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CESAR.

But then to 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' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k,
As I wad by a stinking brock.

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 maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun staun', 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 nae sae wretched's ane wad think;
Though constantly on poortith's brink:
They're sae accustom'd wi' 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 fire side.

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mend the kirk and state affairs; They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's coming, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon❜on.

As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' 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 winds;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round' wi' richt guid will;
The cantie 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 play'd.
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-

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 ay or no's they bid him,
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or may be, 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 warl'.

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 among groves o' myrtles ; Then bouses drumly 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.

LUATH.

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last!

O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' kintra sports, It wa'd for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, and the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin o'a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor fo❜k.

But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

L-d, man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

It's true they need na starve or sweat, Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, An' fill auld age wi' gripes an2 granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a' their colleges and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves to vex them; An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; A kintra lassic at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she's unco weel: But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping through public places. There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party matches, Then sowther a' in deep debauches; Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great and gracious a' as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, They sip the scandal portion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. There's some exception, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o' sight, An' darker gloaming brought the night! The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; The kye stood row tin i' the loan; When up they gat, and shook their lugs, Rejoiced they were na men but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolved to meet some ither day.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.
A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn❜d,
E'en ministers, they hae been kenn'd

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the deil's in h-11

Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four,
I cou'd na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
And toddlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker:
Though leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther,
Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,

The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava!

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

As cheeks o' branks.

"Guid-e'en," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?"*

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, Will ye go back?"

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

It spak right howe,-" My name is Death, But be na fley'd."-Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie:

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wad na mind it, no, that spittle

Out-owre my beard."

"Well, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't;

| Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks; an' tak a seat,
Come, gies your news;
This while ye hae been monie a gate
At monie a house.

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head,
"It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid,

To stap or scar me;

Till ane Hornbook'st ta'en up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan‡
An' ither chaps,

That weans haud out their fingers laughin
And pouk my hips.

"See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart, They hae pierced mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art,

And cursed skill, Has made them baith not worth a f―t, Damn'd haet they'll kill. ""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart Of a kail-runt.

*An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. + This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally, a brother of the sovereign order of the ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, sur geon, and physician.

Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

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"E'en them he canna get attended, Alto' their face he ne'er had kend it, Justin a kail-blade, and send it,

As soon he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it At once he tells't.

"And then a' doctors' saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,
He's sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

"Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees;
True Sal-marinum o' the seas;
The Farina of beans and pease,

He has❜t in plenty;

Aqua-fortis, what you please,

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"Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now,'
Quo' I, "if that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonnie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie !"

The creature grain'd an eldrich laugh,
And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh
In twa-three year.

"Whare I killed ane a fair strae-death,
By loss o' blood or want o' breath,
This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill

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Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,

By early poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field,
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some patron's generous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B********* befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming winter's biting, frosty breath;

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds' an' flowers' delicious spoils,

Ance

AULD BRIG.

Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep shank,
ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank;
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me,
Though faith that day, I doubt, ye'll never see,
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle.

Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:
The thundering guns are heard on every side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree:
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide
blaze,

NEW BRIG.

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little mense,
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense;
Will your poor, narrow footpath of a street,
Where twa wheelbarrows tremble when they meet,
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime,
Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?
There's men o' taste would tak the Ducat-stream,*
Though they should cast the very sark an' swim,
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view

AULD BRIG.

While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays. Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you.
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard,
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward:
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care;
He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left about:
(Whether impell'd by all-directing fate,
To witness what I after shall narrate;
Or whether, rapt in meditation high,

He wander'd out, he knew not where nor why ;)
The drowsy dungeon-clock† had number'd two,
And Wallace towert had sworn the fact was true:
The tide-swoln Firth with sullen sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:
All else was hush'd as nature's closed e'e;
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree:
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream.—
When, lo! on either hand the listening bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart through the midnight air,
Swift as the gost drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on th' auld brig his airy shape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers:
Our warlock rhymer instantly descried
The sprites that owre the brigs of Ayr preside.
(That bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the spiritual fo'k ;
Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them,
And e'en the very deils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face :
He seem'd as he wi' time had warstled lang,
Yet teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got:
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead,
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch;
It chanced his new-come neebor took his e'e,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him this guideen :-

A noted tavern at the auld brig end. + The two steeples.

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The gos-hawk, or falcon.

Conceited gowk! puff'd up wi' windy pride!
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide;
And though wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn,
I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless cairn!
As yet ye little ken about the matter,
But twa-three winters will inform you better,
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains,
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil,
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course,
Or haunted Garpalt draws his feeble source,
Aroused by blustering winds an' spotting thowes,
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat,
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate;
And from Glenbuck, down to the Rotton-key,§
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea;
Then down ye hurl, deil nor ye never rise!
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies:
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,
That architecture's noble art is lost!

NEW BRIG.

Fine architecture! trowth, I needs must say't o't,
The L-d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't!
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices,
Hanging with threatening jut, like precipices,
O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves,
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves :
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture drest,
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest;
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream,
The crazed creations of misguided whim;
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee,
And still the second dread command be free ;
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea.

* A noted ford, just above the auld brig.

+ The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to inhabit.

The source of the river Ayr.

§ A small landing place above the large kev.

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