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 and scholar ; 

 But tho' 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-gipsey'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 and hillocks wi' him. 



The tither was a ploughman's collie, 

 A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 

 Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 

 An' in his freaks 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, 

 Ay gat him friends in ilka place ; 

 His breast was white, his touzie back 

 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 

 His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 

 Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl. 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 

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