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To nae thrawn boy, nor scrawghin wife,

Shall thy auld banes become a drudge; At cats an' callans, a' thy life,

Thou ever bore a mortal grudge.

An' whiles thy surly looks declared,

Thou lo'ed the women warst of a'; 'Cause aft they my affection shared,

Which thou couldst never bruik at a'.

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When sitting with my bonny Meg,

Mair happy than a prince could be, Thou plac'd thee by her other leg,

An' watched her wi' a jealous ee.

An' then, at ony start or steer,

Thou wad ha'e worried furiouslye ; While I was forc'd to curse and swear,

Afore thou wad forbidden be.

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Yet wad she clasp thy towzy paw ;

Thy greesome grips were never skaithly; An' thou than her hast been mair true!

An' truer than the friend that ga'e thee!

Ah, me! of fashion, health, an' pride,

The world has read me sic a lecture ! But yet it's a' in part repaid

By thee, my faithful, grateful Hector!

O'er past imprudence, oft alane

I've shed the saut an' silent tear ; Then sharing ay my grief an' pain,

My poor auld friend came snoovin' near.

For a' the days we've sojourned here,

An they've been neither fine nor few, That thought possest thee year to year,

That a' my griefs arase frae you.

Wi' waesome face, and hingin' head,

Thou wad ha'e press'd thee to my knee ; While I thy looks as weel could read,

As thou hadst said in words to me

“O my dear master, dinna greet;

What ha'e I ever done to vex ye 1 See here I'm cowrin' at your feet;

Just take my life if I perplex ye.

“For a' my toil, my wee drap meat

Is a' the wage I ask of thee; For whilk I'm oft oblig'd to wait

Wi' hungry wame, an' patient ee.

“ Whatever wayward course ye steer ;

Whatever sad mischance o'ertake ye : Man, here is ane will hald ye dear! Man, here's a friend will ne'er forsake ye !"

Yes, my puir beast! though friends me scorn,

Whom mair than life I valued dear; An' throw me out to fight forlorn,

Wi' ills my heart dow hardly bear.

While I have thee to bear a part

My plaid, my health, an' heezle rungI'll scorn the silly haughty heart,

The saucy look, and slanderous tongue.

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Sure friends by pop'lar envy sway'd,

Are ten times waur than ony fae! My heart was theirs, an' to them laid

As open as the light o' day.

I fear'd my aim ; but never dredd

That I for loss o' theirs should mourn; Or that, when luck or favour fled,

Their friendship wad injurious turn.

But He, who feeds the ravens young,

Lets naething pass unheeded bye ; He'll sometime judge of right an' wrong,

An' ay provide for you and I.

And hear me, Hector : thee I'll trust,

As far as thou hast wit an' skill; Sae will I ae sweet lovely breast,

To me a balm for every ill.

To these my faith shall ever run,

While I have reason truth to scan; But ne'er, beyond my mother's son,

To aught that bears the shape of man.

I ne'er could thole thy cravin' face,

Nor when ye pattit on my knee; Though in a far an' unco place,

I've whiles been forc'd to beg for thee.

Even now I'm in my master's power,

Where my regard may scarce be shown ; But ere I'm forc'd to gi'e thee o'er,

When thou art old an' useless grown,

I'll get a cottage o' my ain,

Some wee bit cannie, lonely biel', Where thy auld heart shall rest fu' fain,

An' share with me my humble meal.

Thy post shall be to guard the door,

An' bark at pethers, boys, an' whips; Of cats an' hens to clear the floor,

An' bite the flaes that vex thy hips.

When my last bannock's on the hearth,

Of that thou sanna want thy share ; While I have house or hald on earth,

My Hector shall ha'e shelter there.

An' should grim death thy noddle save,

Till he has made an end of me; Ye'll lye a wee while on the grave

Of ane wha ay was kind to thee.

There's nane alive will miss me mair;

An though in words thou canst not wail, On a' the claes thy master ware,

Thou'lt smell, and fawn, an' wag thy tail.

An' if I'm forc'd with thee to part,

Which will be sair against my will; I'll sometimes mind thy honest heart,

As lang as I can climb a hill.

Come, my anld, towzy, trusty tike,

Let's speel away to Queensb'ry's lofty brow, There greedy midges never fike! There care an' envy never grow.

While gazing down the fertile dales,

Content an' peace shall ay be by ; An' muses leave their native vales

To rove at large wi' you and I.

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