My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No churchman am I for to rail and to write.
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
Now westlin winds and slaught❜ring guns
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O rough, rude, ready-witted R******
O Thou dread Pow'r who reign'st above!
O Thou Great Being, what thou art
O Thou pale orb, that silent shines
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend!
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
O Thou! whatever title suit thee
O ye wha are sae guid yoursel
Some books are lies frae end to end
Stop passenger! my story's brief
Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love
The gloomy night is gath'ring fast
The man, in life, wherever plac'd
The poor man weeps-here G- -n sleeps
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough
The sun had clos'd the winter day
The wind blew hollow frae the hills
The wintry west extends his blast
There was three kings into the east
Thou whom chance may hither lead
Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st
"Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle
Upon a simmer Sunday morn
Upon that night, when fairies light
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower.
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie
When biting Boreas, fell and doure
When chapman billies leave the street
When chill November's surly blast.
When Guildford good our pilot stood
While briers an' woodbines budding green
While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake.
While virgin spring, by Eden's flood
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene!
Why, ye tenants of the lake.
With musing deep, astonish'd stare
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires
"TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing 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 Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour'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,
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar:
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n with a 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,
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' 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 towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung 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,
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.
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;
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