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 crazy age 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 crazy years 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.

The Twa Dogs^1

     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’ comrade had him,
     And in freak had Luath ca’d him,
     After some dog in Highland Sang,^2
     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.

     [Footnote 1:  Luath was Burns’ own dog.]

     [Footnote 2:  Luath, Cuchullin’s dog in Ossian’s “Fingal.”—­R.  B.]