The following is a conversation between two dogs,
\none, whose master was a lord, the other, whose master was a peasant.<\/p>\n
“The Twa Dogs”<\/p>\n
“A Tale”
\n“Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle
\nThat bears the name o’ auld King Coil,
\nUpon a bonie day in June,
\nWhen wearing through the afternoon,
\nTwa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
\nForegathered ance upon a time.<\/p>\n
The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar,
\nWas keepit for ‘his Honor’s’ pleasure:
\nHis hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
\nShowed he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;
\nBut whalpit some place far abroad,
\nWhare sailors gang to fish for cod.
\nHis locked, letter’d, braw brass collar
\nShow’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;
\nBut though he was o’ high degree,
\nThe fient a pride, nae pride had he;
\nBut wad hae spent an hour caressin’,
\nEv’n wi’ a tinkler-gypsy’s messin;
\nAt kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
\nNae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,
\nBut he wad stand, as glad to see him,
\nAn’ stroan’d on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him.<\/p>\n
The tither was a ploughman’s collie–
\nA rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
\nWha for his friend an’ comrade had him,
\nAnd in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,
\nAfter some dog in Highland sang,
\nWas made lang syne–Lord knows how lang.
\nHe was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke,
\nAs ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
\nHis honest, sonsie, baws’nt face
\nAy gat him friends in ilka place;
\nHis breast was white, his tousie back
\nWeel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black;
\nHis gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl,
\nHung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl.<\/p>\n
Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither,
\nAnd unco pack an’ thick thegither;
\nWi’ social nose whyles snuff’d an snowkit;
\nWhyles mice an’moudieworts they howkit;
\nWhyyles scour’d awa’in lang excursion,
\nAn’ worry’d ither in diversion;
\nTil tir’d at last wi’ monie a farce,
\nThey sat them down upon their arse,
\nAn’ there began a lang digression
\nAbout the ‘lords o’ the creation’.<\/p>\n
CEASAR
\nI’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath,
\nWhat sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;
\nAn’ when the gentry’s life I saw,
\nWhat way poor bodies liv’d ava.
\nOur laird gets in his racked rents,
\nHis coals, his kain, an’ a’ his stents:
\nHe rises when he likes himsel;
\nHis flunkies answer at the bell;
\nHe ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse;
\nHe draws a bonie silken purse,
\nAs lang’s my tail, whare, through the steeks,
\nThe yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.
\nFrae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling,
\nAt baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
\nAn’ though the gentry first are stechin,
\nYet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their pechan
\nWi’ sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie,
\nThat’s little short o’ downright wastrie:
\nOur whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner,
\nPoor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
\nBetter than onie tenant-man
\nHis Honor has in a’ the lan’;
\nAn’ what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
\nI own it’s past my comprehension.<\/p>\n
LUATH
\nTrowth, Ceasar, whyles they’re fash’t enough:
\nA cotter howkin in a sheugh,
\nWi’ dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
\nBaring a quarry, an’ sic like;
\nHimsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
\nA smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,
\nAn’ nought but his han’ darg to keep
\nThem right an’tight in thack an’ rape.
\nAn’ when they meet wi’ sair disasters,
\nLike loss o’ health or want o’ masters,
\nYe maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
\nAn’ they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger:
\nBut how it comes, I never kend yet,
\nThey’re maistly wonderfu’ contented;
\nAn’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,
\nAre bred in sic a way as this is.<\/p>\n
CEASAR
\nBut then to see how ye’re negleckit,
\nHow huff’d an’ cuff’d an’ disrespeckit!
\nLord man, our gentry care as little
\nfor delvers, ditchers, an’ sic cattle;
\nThey gang as saucy by poor folk,
\nAs I wad by a stinking brock.
\nI’ve notic’d, on our laird’s court-day,
\n[An’ monie a time my heart’s been wae],
\nPoor tenant bodies, scant o’ cash,
\nHow they maun thole a factor’s snash:
\nHe’ll stamp an threaten, curse an’ swear
\nHe’ll apprehend them, poind their gear;
\nWhile they maun staun’, wi’ aspect humble,
\nAn’ hear it a’, an’ fear an’ tremble!
\nI see how folk live that hae riches,
\nBut surely poor-folk maun be wretches!<\/p>\n
LUATH
\nThey’re nae sae wretched’s ane wad think:
\nThough constantly on poortith’s brink,
\nThey’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight,
\nThe view o’t gies them little fright.
\nThen chance an’ fortune are sae guided,
\nThey’re ay in less or mair provided;
\nAn’ though fatigu’d wi’ close employment,
\nA blink o’ rest’s a sweet enjoyment.
\nThe dearest comfort o’ their lives,
\nTheir grushie weans an’ faithfu’ wives;
\nThe prattling things are just their pride,
\nThat sweeten a’ their fire-side.
\nAn’ whyles twalpennie worth o’ nappy
\nCan mak the bodies unco happy:
\nThey lay aside their private cares,
\nTo mind the Kirk and State affairs;
\nThey’ll talk o’ patronage an’ priests,
\nWi’ kindling fury i’ their breasts,
\nOr tell what new taxation’s comin,
\nAn’ ferlie at the folk in Lon’on.
\nAs bleak fac’d Hallowmass returns,
\nThey get the jovial, ranting kirns,
\nWhen rural life, of ev’ry station,
\nUnite in common recreation;
\nLove blinks, Wit slaps, an’ social Mirth
\nForgets there’s Care upo’ the earth.
\nThat merry day the year begins,
\nThey bar the door on frosty win’s;
\nThe nappy reeks wi’ mantling ream,
\nAn’ sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
\nThe luntin pipe, an’ sneeshin mill,
\nAre handed round wi’ right guid will;
\nThe cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
\nThe young anes ranting through the house–
\nMy heart has been sae fain to see them,
\nThat I for joy hae barkit wi’ them.
\nStill it’s owre true that ye hae said
\nSic game is now owre aften play’d;
\nThere’s monie a creditable stock
\nO’ decent, honest, fawsont folk,
\nAre riven out baith root an’ branch,
\nSome rascal’s pridefu’ greed to quench,
\nWha thinks to knit himsel the faster
\nIn favor wi’ some gentle master,
\nWha, aiblins thrang a parliamentin’,
\nFor Britain’s guid his saul indentin’–<\/p>\n
CAESAR
\nHaith, lad, ye little ken about it:
\nFor Britain’s guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
\nSay rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:
\nAn’ saying aye or no’s they bid him:
\nAt operas an’ plays parading,
\nMortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
\nOr maybe, in a frolic daft,
\nTo Hague or Calais taks a waft,
\nTo mak a tour an’ tak a whirl,
\nTo learn bon ton an’ see the worl’.
\nThere, at Vienna or Versailles,
\nHe rives his father’s auld entail;
\nOr by Madrid he taks the rout,
\nTo thrum guitars an’ fecht wi’ nowt;
\nOr down Italian vistas startles,
\nWhore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles
\nThen bowses drumlie German water,
\nTo mak himself look fair an’ fatter,
\nAn’ purge the bitter ga’s an’ cankers
\nO’ curst Venetian bores an’ chancres.
\nFor Britain’s guid! for her destruction!
\nWi’ dissipation, feud an’ faction.<\/p>\n
LUATH
\nHech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
\nThey waste sae monie a braw estate!
\nAre we sae foughten an’ harass’d
\nFor gear to gang that gate at last?
\nO would they stay aback frae courts,
\nAn’ please themsels wi’ countra sports,
\nIt wad for ev’ry ane be better,
\nThe laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter!
\nFor thae frank, rantin, rambling billies,
\nFient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows:
\nExcept for breakin o’ their timmer,
\nOr speaking lightly o’ their limmer,
\nOr shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
\nThe ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk.
\nBut will you tell me, master Ceasar:
\nSure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure?
\nNae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them,
\nThe vera thought o’t need na fear them.<\/p>\n
CEASAR
\nLord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
\nThe gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em!
\nIt’s true, they need na starve or sweat,
\nThrough winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat;
\nThey’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes,
\nAn’ fill auld-age wi’ grips an’ granes:
\nBut human bodies are sic fools,
\nFor a’ their colleges an’ schools,
\nThat when nae real ills perplex them,
\nThey mak enow themsels to vex them;
\nAn’ ay the less they hae to sturt them,
\nIn like proportion, less will hurt them.
\nA countra fellow at the pleugh,
\nHis acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh;
\nA countra girl at her wheel,
\nHer dizzen’s done, she’s unco weel;
\nBut gentlemen, an’ ladies warst,
\nWi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst:
\nThey loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy;
\nThough deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;
\nTheir days insipid, dull an’ tasteless;
\nTheir nights unquiet, lang an’ restless.
\nAn ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races,
\nTheir gallowping through public places,
\nThere’s sic parade, sic pomp an’ art,
\nThe joy can scarcely reach the heart.
\nThe men cast out in party-matches,
\nThen sowther a’ in deep debauches;
\nAe night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring,
\nNiest day their life is past enduring.
\nThe ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
\nAs great an’ gracious a’ as sisters;
\nBut hear their absent thought o’ ither,
\nThey’re a’ run deils an’ jads thegither.
\nWhyles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie,
\nThey sip the scandal-potion pretty;
\nOr lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks
\nPour owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks;
\nStake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard,
\nAn’ cheat like onie unhang’d blackguard.
\nThere’s some exceptions, man an’ woman;
\nBut this is gentry’s life in common.<\/p>\n
By this, the sun was out o’ sight,
\nAn’ darker gloamin brought the night;
\nThe bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone;
\nThe kye stood rowtin’ i’ the loan;
\nWhen up they gat, an’ shook their lugs,
\nRejoic’d they were na men, but dogs;
\nAn’ each took aff his several way,
\nResolv’d to meet some ither day.” Robert Burns.<\/p>\n
Feel the Burns.
\nIslander.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The following is a conversation between two dogs, one, whose master was a lord, the other, whose master was a peasant. “The Twa Dogs” “A Tale” “Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle That bears the name o’ auld King Coil, Upon a bonie day in June, When wearing through the afternoon, Twa dogs, that … Continue reading “Burns”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1263","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1263","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1263"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1263\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1264,"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1263\/revisions\/1264"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thewalrussaid.net\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1263"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}