The Complete Works. Robert Burns

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle

      That bears the name o’ Auld King Coil,

      Upon a bonnie day in June,

      When wearing through 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 Cæsar,

      Was keepit for his honour’s pleasure;

      His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,

      Show’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs;

      But whalpit some place far abroad,

      Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

      His locked, letter’d, braw brass collar

      Show’d him the gentleman and 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’ a tinkler-gypsey’s messin’.

      At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,

      Nae tawted tyke, though e’er sae duddie,

      But he wad stan’t, as glad to see him,

      And stroan’t on stanes and 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,[59]

      Was made lang syne—Lord know how lang.

      He was a gash an’ faithful 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 touzie 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,

      An’ unco pack an’ thick thegither;

      Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit,

      Whyles mice and moudiewarts they howkit;

      Whyles scour’d awa in lang excursion,

      An’ 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;

      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 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 bonnie silken purse

      As lang’s my tail, whare, through the steeks,

      The yellow letter’d Geordie keeks.

      Frae morn to e’en its nought but toiling,

      At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;

      An’ though the gentry first are stechin,

      Yet even 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, 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, Cæsar, whyles they’re fash’t eneugh

      A cotter howkin in a sheugh,

      Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke,

      Baring a quarry, and sic like;

      Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,

      A smytrie o’ wee duddie weans,

      An’ nought but his han’ darg, to keep

      Them right and 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 and hunger;

      But, how it comes, I never kenn’d yet,

      They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented:

      An’ buirdly chiels, an’ clever hizzies,

      Are bred in sic a way as this is.

      Cæsar.

      But then to see how ye’re negleckit,

      How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit!

      L—d, 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.

      I’ve notic’d, on our Laird’s court-day,

      An’ mony a time my heart’s been wae,

      Poor tenant bodies, scant 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’, wi’ aspect 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 СКАЧАТЬ