The tither was a ploughman’s collie, A rhyming, ranting, raving billie; Wha for his friend and 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, bawsent face Aye 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 o’er his hurdies wi’ a swirl. Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, And unco pack and thick thegither; Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit; Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion, And worried ither in diversion; Until wi’ daffin’ weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords of 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 rackèd 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 bonny silken purse As lang’s my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow-letter’d Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; And though the gentry first are stechin’, Yet e’en the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like 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 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, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh; A cottar howkin’ in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddy weans, And nought but his han’-darg to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer And they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger; But how it comes I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies Are bred in sic a way as this is. CAESAR