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Robert Burns - The Twa Dogs
Work rating: Medium

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 wearin` thro` 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 Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honor`s pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew`d he was nane o` Scotland`s dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter`d, braw brass collar
Shew`d him the gentleman an` scholar;
But though he was o` high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev`n wi` al tinkler-gipsy`s messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho` e`er sae duddie,
But he wad stan`t, as glad to see him,
An` 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 freak 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 touzie back
Weel clad wi` coat o` glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi` upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdie`s wi` a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o` ither,
And unco pack an` thick thegither;
Wi` social nose whiles snuff`d an` snowkit;
Whiles mice an` moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour`d awa` in lang excursion,
An` worry`d ither in diversion;
Until wi` daffin` weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An` there began a lang digression.
About the "lords o` the creation."

Caesar

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 kane, an` 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` sic like trashtrie,
That`s little short o` downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted 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, Caesar, whiles they`re fash`t eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi` dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an` sic like;
Himsel`, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o` wee duddie weans,
An` nought but his han`-daurk, 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 an` hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They`re maistly wonderfu` contented;
An` buirdly chiels, an` clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

Caesar

But then to see how ye`re negleckit,
How huff`d, an` cuff`d, an` disrespeckit!
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 stinkin 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 no sae wretched`s ane wad think.
Tho` constantly on poortith`s brink,
They`re sae accustom`d wi` the sight,
The view o`t gives them little fright.

Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They`re aye in less or mair provided:
An` tho` 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` whiles twalpennie worth o` nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy:
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs;
They`ll talk o` patronage an` priests,
Wi` kindling fury i` their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation`s comin,
An` ferlie at the folk in Lon`on.

As bleak-fac`d Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of 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 win`s;
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 rantin thro` 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 mony a creditable stock
O` decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an` 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-

Caesar

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 maybe, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour an` tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an` see the worl`.

There, at Vienna, or Versailles,
He rives his father`s auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the rout,
To thrum guitars an` fecht wi` nowt;
Or down Italian vista startles,

Whore-hunting amang groves o` myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,
To mak himsel look fair an` 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` country sports,
It wad for ev`ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an` the cotter!
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Feint haet o` them`s ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin o` their timmer,
Or speakin lightly o` their limmer,
Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,
The ne`er-a-bit they`re ill to poor folk,

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar,
Sure great folk`s life`s a life o` pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e`er can steer them,
The very thought o`t need na fear them.

Caesar

Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,
The gentles, ye wad ne`er envy them!

It`s true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro` winter`s cauld, or simmer`s heat:
They`ve 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 themsel`s 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 acre`s till`d, he`s right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen`s dune, she`s unco weel;
But gentlemen, an` ladies warst,
Wi` ev`n-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`ev`n 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` 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,
They`re a` run-deils an` jads thegither.
Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an` platie,
They sip the scandal-potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi` crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil`s pictur`d beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer`s stackyard,
An` cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.

There`s some exceptions, man an` woman;
But this is gentry`s life in common.

By this, the sun was out of sight,
An` darker gloamin brought the night;
The bum-clock humm`d wi` lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i` the loan;
When up they gat an` shook their lugs,
Rejoic`d they werena men but dogs;
An` each took aff his several way,
Resolv`d to meet some ither day.
Source
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