Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/26

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He was a gash and 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 touzle back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gaucie 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 snowkitː
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
And 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.

CÆSAR.
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have:
And when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.
Our Laird gets in his racket 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 silkyn purse
As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks,
The yellow-letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;