The Twa Dgs
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, father'd ance upon a time. the first i'll hey 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 it some place far abroad, whare sailang 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, awted 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 loughman'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 ho, 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 pa' thick thegither; wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit; whiles mi' moudieworts they howkit; whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, an' worry'd ither in diversion; until wi' daffin' weary grown upon a khey set them down. an' there began a lang digression. about the “lords o' the creation.” caesar i've aften wonder'd, ho luath, what sort o' life ps like you have; an' when the gentry's life i saw, what oor 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 a 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 ste, yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pe wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie, that's little short o' dht wastrie. our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, better than o-man his honour has in a' the lan': an' oor cot-folk pit their pain, i own it's past my prehension. 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 tha' 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 it es, i never ke, they're maistly wonderfu' tented; an' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, are bred in sic a way as this is. caesar but then to see how ye're , how huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit! lord man, entry care as little for delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; they gang as saucy by poor folk, as i wad by a stinkin brock. i've notic'd, on our laird's court-day,— an' mony a time my heart's been wae,— poor tenant bodies, st o'cash, how they maun thole a factor's snash; he'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear he'll apprehend them, poind their gear; while they maun stan', ect humble, an' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble! i see how folk live that hae riches; but surely poor-folk maun be wretches! luath they're no sae wretched's ane wad think. tho' stantly on poortith's brink, they're sae ac'd wi' the sight, the view o't gives them little fright. then d fortune are sae guided, they're aye in less or mair provided: an' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, a blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. the dearest fort o' their lives, their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; the prattling things are just their pride, that sweetens a' their fire-side. an' whiles tennie worth o' nappy mak the bodies unco happy: they lay aside their private cares, to mind the kirk and state affairs; they'll talk o' patronage an' priests, wi' kindling fury i' their breasts, or tell what axation's in, an' ferlie at the folk in lon'on. as bleak-fac'd hallowmass returns, they get the jovial, rantin kirns, when rural life, of ev'ry station, unite in on recreation; love blinks, wit slaps, an' social mirth fets there's care upo' the earth. that merry day the year begins, they bar the door on frosty win's; the nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, an' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; the luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, are handed round wi' right guid will; the tie auld folks cra crouse, the young anes rantin thro' the house— my heart has been sae fain to see them, that i for joy hae barkit wi' them. still it's owre true that ye hae said, sic game is now owre aften play'd; there's mony a creditable stock o' det, ho, fawsont folk, are riven out baith root an' branch, some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, wha thinks to knit himsel the faster in favour wi' some gentle master, wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, for britain's guid his saul iin— caesar haith, lad, ye little ken about it: for britain's guid! guid faith! i doubt it. say rather, gaun as premiers lead him: an' saying ay or no's they bid him: at operas an' plays parading, ming, gambling, masquerading: or maybe, in a frolic daft, to hague or calais takes a waft, to mak a tour an' tak a whirl, to learn bon ton, ahe worl'. there, at vienna, or versailles, he rives his father's auld entails; or by madrid he takes the rout, tuitars a wi' nowt; or down italian vista startles, whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: then bowses drumlie german-water, to mak himsel look fair an' fatter, an' clear the sequential sorrows, love-gifts of ival signoras. for britain's guid! for her destru! wi' dissipation, feud, an' fa. luath hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate they waste sae mony a braw estate! are we sae foughten an' harass'd fear to gang that gate at last? o would they stay aback frae courts, an' please themsels wi' try sports, it wad for ev'ry ater, the laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! for thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; except for breakin o' their timmer, or speakin lightly o' their limmer, or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, the ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk, but will ye tell me, master caesar, sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? nae cauld nor hunger e'er steer them, the very thought o't need hem. caesar lord, man, were ye but whiles whare i am, the gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them! it's true, they need na starve or sweat, thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat: they've nae sair wark to craze their banes, an' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: but human bodies are sic fools, for a' their colleges an' schools, that when nae real ills perplex them, they mak enow themsel's to vex them; an' aye the less they hae to sturt them, in like proportion, less will hurt them. a try fellow at the pleugh, his acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; a try girl at her wheel, her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel; but gentlemen, an' ladies warst, wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst. they loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy; tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; their nights u, lang, aless. an'ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, their galloping through public places, there's sic parade, sip, an' art, the joy scarcely reach the heart. the men cast out in party-matches, then sowther a' in deep debauches. ae night they're mad wi' drink an' wh, day their life is past enduring. the ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, as great an' gracious a' as sisters; but hear their absent thoughts o' ither, they're a' run-deils an' jads thegither. whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, they sip the sdal-potioy; or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks; stake on a ce a farmer's stackyard, an' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard. there's some exceptions, man an' woman; but this is gentry's life in on. by this, the sun was out of sight, an' darker gloamin brought the night; the bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; the kye stood rowtin i' the loan; when up they gat an' shook their lugs, rejoic'd they werena men but dogs; an' each took aff his several way, resolv'd to meet some ither day.