He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hang o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

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, And worry'd ither in diversion;

Until wi' daffin weary grown,

Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digresssion

-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: 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 bonie silken purse,

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

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' 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 Honor has in a' the lan':

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

Trowth, CESAR, whyles they're fash't enough;

A cottar howkin in a sheugh,

Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sicklike,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie 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' 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 wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

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, and sic cattle;

They gang as saucy 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, 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 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.

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think;

Tho' 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 ay in less or mair provided;
An' tho' fatigu'd 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 make the bodies unco happy; They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas 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;