as e'er tread yird;
an' could hae flown out-owre a stank,
like ony bird.
it's now some nine-an'-twenty year,
sin' thou was my guid-father's mear;
he gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
an' fifty mark;
tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,
an' thou was stark.
when first i gaed to woo my jenny,
ye then was trotting wi' your minnie:
tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
ye ne'er was donsie;
but hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
an' unco sonsie.
that day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
when ye bure hame my bonie bride:
an' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
wi' maiden air!
kyle-stewart i could bragged wide
for sic a pair.
tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
an' wintle like a saumont coble,
that day, ye was a jinker noble,
for heels an' win'!
an' ran them till they a' did wauble,
far, far, behin'!
when thou an' i were young an' skeigh,
an' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,
how thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreigh
an' tak the road!
town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
an' ca't thee mad.
when thou was corn't, an' i was mellow,
we took the road aye like a swallow:
at brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
for pith an' speed;
but ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollowm
whare'er thou gaed.
the sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle
might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
but sax scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,
an' gar't them whaizle:
nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
o' saugh or hazel.
thou was a noble fittie-lan',
as e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
aft thee an' i, in aught hours' gaun,
in guid march-weather,
hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
for days thegither.
thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit;
but thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
an' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
wi' pith an' power;
till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskit
an' slypet owre.
when frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,
an' threaten'd labour back to keep,
i gied thy cog a wee bit heap
aboon the timmer:
i ken'd my maggie wad na sleep,
for that, or simmer.
in cart or car thou never reestit;
the steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit,
then stood to blaw;
but just thy step a wee thing hastit,
thou snoov't awa.
my pleugh is now thy bairn-time a',
four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
forbye sax mae i've sell't awa,
that thou hast nurst:
they drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
the vera warst.
mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
an' wi' the weary warl' fought!
an' mony an anxious day, i thought
we wad be beat!
yet here to craage we're brought,
wi' something yet.
an' think na', my auld trusty servan',
that now perhaps thou's less deservin,
an' thy auld days may end in starvin;
for my last fow,
a heapit stimpart, i'll reserve ane
laid by for you.
we've worn to crayears thegither;
we'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
wi' tentie care i'll flit thy tether
to some hain'd rig,
whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
wi' sma' fatigue.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the twa dogs the twa dogs 注释标题 luath was burns' own dog.
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'rade 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 myprehension.
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 ites, 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;