As its Burns Day I thought Id share a poem about two dogs. Rabbies own dog Luath a collie, and a dog called Caesar, I think a Newfoundland (no DDBs Im afraid!) The Twa Dogs. A Tale. Twas in that place o Scotlands isle, That bears the name o auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June, When wearin thro the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, Forgatherd ance upon a time. The first Ill name, they cad him Caesar, Was keepit for his Honors pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shewd he was nane o Scotlands dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod. His locked, letterd, braw brass collar Shewd him the gentleman an scholar; But tho he was o high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Evn wi a tinkler-gipsys messin; At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho eer sae dudie, But he wad stant, as glad to see him, An stroant on stanes an hillocks wi him. The tither was a ploughmans collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, Wha for his friend an comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath cad 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, bawsnt face Ay gat him friends in ilka place; His breast was white, his tousie back Weel clad wi coat o glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi upward curl, Hung owre his hurdies wi a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o ither, And unco pack an thick thegither, Wi social nose whyles snuffd an snowkit; Whyles mice an moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scourd awa in lang excursion, An worryd ither in diversion; Till tird at last wi monie a farce, They sat them down upon their arse, An there began a lang digression About the lords o the creation. Caesar. Ive aften wonderd, honest Luath, What sort o life poor dogs like you have; An when the gentrys life I saw, What way poor bodies livd ava. Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kain, an a his stents: He rises when he likes himsel; His flunkies answer at the bell; He cas his coach; he cas his horse; He draws a bonie silken purse, As langs my tail, whare, thro the steeks, The yellow letterd Geordie keeks. Frae morn to een its nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An tho the gentry first are stechin, Yet evn the ha folk fill their pechan Wi sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie, Thats little short o downright wastrie: Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, Better than onie tenant-man His Honor has in a the lan; An what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own its past my comprehension. Luath. Trowth, Caesar, whyles theyre fasht enough: A cotter howkin in a sheugh, Wi dirty stanes biggin a dyke, Baring a quarry, an sic like; Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o wee duddie weans, An nought but his han darg to keep Them right an 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 kend yet, Theyre maistly wonderfu contented; An buirdly chiels, an clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. Caesar. But then to see how yere negleckit, How huffd an cuffd, an disrespecket! 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. Ive noticd, on our lairds court-day, (An monie a time my hearts been wae), Poor tenant bodies, scant o cash, How they maun thole a factors snash: Hell stamp an threaten, curse an swear Hell 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. Theyre nae sae wretched s ane wad think: Tho constantly on poortiths brink, Theyre sae accustomd wi the sight, The view ot gies them little fright. Then chance an fortune are sae guided, Theyre ay in less or mair provided; An tho fatigud wi close employment, A blink o rests 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 mind the Kirk and State affairs; Theyll talk o patronage an priests, Wi kindling fury i their breasts, Or tell what new taxations comin, An ferlie at the folk in London. As bleak-facd Hallowmass returns, They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life, of every station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an social Mirth Forgets theres Care upo the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty wins; The nappy reeks wi mantling ream, An sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an sneeshin mill, Are handed round wi right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes ranting thro the house- My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi them. Still its owre true that ye hae said Sic game is now owre aften playd; Theres monie a creditable stock O decent, honest, fawsont folk, Are riven out baith root and branch, Some rascals pridefu greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favor wi some gentle master, Wha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin, For Britains guid his saul indentin. Caesar. Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: For Britains 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 taks a waft, To make a tour an tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an see the worl. There at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his fathers auld entails; Or by Madrid he taks the rout, To thrum guitars an fecht wi nowt; Or down the Italian vista startles, Whore-hunting amang groves o myrtles Then bowses drumlie German-water, To mak himsel look fair an fatter, An purge the bitter gas an cankers O curst Venetian bores an chancres. For Britains guid! For her destruction! Wi dissipation, feud an faction. Luath. Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae monie a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an harassd For gear ta gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An please themsels wi countra sports, It wad for evry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Fient haet o thems ill-hearted fellows: Except for breakin o their timmer, Or speaking lightly o their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The never-a-bit theyre ill to poor folk. But will ye tell me, master Caeser: Sure great folks lifes a life o pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger eer can steer them, The vera thought ot need na fear them. Caesar. Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad neer envy em! Its true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro winters cauld, or simmers heat; Theyve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An fill auld-age wi grips an granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a their colleges an schools, That when nae real ills perplex them; They mak enow themsels to vex them; An ay the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them. A countra fellow at the pleugh, His acres tilld, hes right enough, A countra girl at her wheel, Her dizzens done, shes unco weel; But gentlemen, an ladies warst, Wi evn down want o wark are curst: They loiter, lounging, lank an lazy; Tho deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy: Their days insipid, dull an tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang an restless. An even their sports, their balls an races, Their galloping through public places, Theres sic parade, sic pomp an art, The joy can hardly reach the heart. The men cast out in party-matches, Then sowther a in deep debauches; Ae night theyre mad wi drink an whoring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters; As great an gracious a as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o ither. Theyre a run deils an jads thegither, Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi crabbit leuks, Pore owre the devils picturd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmers stackyard, An cheat like onie unhangd blackguard. Theres some exceptions, man an woman; But this is Gentrys life in common. By this, the sun was out o sight, An darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock hummd wi lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i the loan; When up they gat, an shook their lugs, Rejoicd they were na men, but dogs; An each took aff his several way, Resolvd to meet some ither day.
Posted on: Sat, 25 Jan 2014 11:42:49 +0000
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