The Canongate Burns. Robert Burns

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      The Kilmarnock edition begins with four lines supposedly from an anonymous poet, wholly appropriate to the image Burns wished to project to his readers. They are, in all probability, his own composition. In his Preface, Burns coyly suggests that he does not have ‘all the advantages of learned art’ in poetry – when, in fact, he is a master craftsman in poetic form and metre. He goes on to explain that his poetry is the product of Nature’s influence on him. This projected persona is captured perfectly in the quatrain. The possibility that Burns wrote these lines was first suggested by the highly distinguished American scholar, Professor Carol McGuirk, in her excellent Robert Burns: Selected Poems (Penguin, 1993). A search of known anonymous poetry for the 18th century did not trace a potential author other than Burns. The lines are a hand-in-glove portrayal of Burns’s self-projection of himself as a poet.

       The Twa Dogs: A Tale

      First printed in the Kilmarnock edition, 1786.

      ’Twas in that place o’ Scotland’s isle

      That bears the name of auld King COIL, old, Kyle

      Upon a bonie day in June, bonny

      When wearing thro’ the afternoon,

      5 Twa Dogs, that were na thrang at hame, two, not busy, home

      Forgather’d ance upon a time. met by chance, once

      The first I’ll name, they ca’d him Caesar, called

      Was keepet for his Honor’s pleasure: kept

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

      10 Shew’d he was nane o’ Scotland’s dogs; none

      But whalpet some place far abroad, pupped

      Whare sailors gang to fish for Cod. where, go

      His locked, letter’d, braw brass-collar

      Shew’d him the gentleman an’ scholar;

      15 But tho’ he was o’ high degree,

      The fient a pride na pride had he; fiend, no

      But wad hae spent an hour caressan, would have

      Ev’n wi’ a Tinkler-gipsey’s messan; mongrel

      At Kirk or Market, Mill or Smiddie, smithy

      20 Nae tawtied tyke, tho’ e’er sae duddie, matted cur, so ragged

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

      An’ stroan’t on stanes an’ hillocks wi’ him. pissed, stones

      The tither was a ploughman’s collie,

      A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, fellow/character

      25 Wha for his friend an’ comrade had him, who

      And in his freaks had Luath ca’d him,

After some dog in Highland Sang,1

      Was made lang syne, Lord knows how lang. long ago

      He was a gash an’ faithfu’ tyke, wise, dog

      30 As ever lap a sheugh or dyke! leapt, ditch, stone wall

      His honest, sonsie, baws’nt face friendly, white marks

      Ay gat him friends in ilka place; always got, every

      His breast was white, his touzie back shaggy

      Weel clad wi’ coat o’ glossy black; well covered

      35 His gawsie tail, wi’ upward curl, fine/full

      Hung owre his hurdies wi’ a swirl. over, buttocks

      Nae doubt but they were fain o’ ither, no, fond of each other

      And unco pack an’ thick thegither; kept secrets/confidential

      Wi’ social nose whyles snuff’d an’ snowcket; whiles, sniffed

      40 Whyles mice an’ moudiewurks they howcket; whiles, moles, dug for

      Whyles scour’d awa’ in lang excursion, whiles, long

      An’ worry’d ither in diversion;

      Till tir’d at last wi’ monie a farce, many

      They sat them down upon their arse,

      45 An’ there began a lang digression long

      About the lords o’ the creation.

      CAESAR

      I’ve aften wonder’d, honest Luath, often

      What sort o’ life poor dogs like you have;

      An’ when the gentry’s life I saw,

      50 What way poor bodies liv’d ava. at all

      Our Laird gets in his racked rents, extortionate

      His coals, his kane, an’ a’ his stents: payments in kind, dues

      He rises when he likes himsel;

      His flunkies answer at the bell; servants

      55 He ca’s his coach; he ca’s his horse; calls

      He draws a bonie, silken purse, carries

      As lang’s my tail, whare thro’ the steeks, long as, where, stiches

      The yellow, letter’d Geordie keeks. guinea (King’s head) peeps

      Frae morn to een it’s nought but toiling, from, evening, nothing

      60 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;

      An’ tho’ the gentry first are steghan, cramming

      Yet ev’n the ha’ folk fill their peghan hall (servants), stomach

      Wi’ sauce, ragouts, an sic like trashtrie, such like rubbish

      That’s little short o’ downright wastrie: wastage

      65 Our Whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, small, blasted wonder

      Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,

      Better than onie Tenant-man any

      His Honor СКАЧАТЬ