Ev’n wi a tinkler-gipsy’s messan:

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,

Nae tawtied 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 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 faithfu 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 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 the gither:

Wi social nose whyles snuff’d an snowkit;

Whyles mice an moudieworts they howkit;

Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,

An worry’d ither in diversion;

Untill wi’ daffin weary grown,

Upon a knowe thewy sat 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 langs my tail, whare, thro the steeks,

The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to een 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 peghan

Wi sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie,

That’s little short o downright wastrie.

Our whipper-in, wee, blastiet 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 it’s past my comprehension.

LUATH

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh:

A cotter howkin in a sheugh,

Wi dirty stanes biggin an 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 raep.

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.

CAESAR

But then to see how ye’re negleckit,

How huffd, an cuffd, 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 stinking brock.