Let him behold his death and own their !
CHORUS. Cadmus, we grieve for thee; thy
Hath his reward-just, though it pains thy
BACCHUS. Oh, father, for my state now
Thou and thy loved Harmonia, who from Mars Descended graced thy bed, though mortal thou,
CAD. Il suits the gods frail man's relentless wrath.
BAC. Long since my father Jove thus graced his son.
AGA. Ah me! it is decreed-unhappy exile.
CAD. Alas, my daughter, in what dreadful ills
Are we all plunged, thy sisters, and thyself | Unhappy! I shall bear my wretched age To sojourn with barbarians, fated yet
Shall wear a dragon's savage form. With To lead a mixed barbaric host to Greece;
Brought on thy house this dreadful punish- | His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, CAD. Dreadful through you my sufferings; But whalpit some place far abroad Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
every tongue Shall sound my name with infamy in Thebes.
AGA. Farewell, my father. CAD. My unhappy child, Thou too farewell, if aught can now be well. AGA. Lead, my attendants, lead me to my sisters,
That I may take them with me, of my flight Mournful associates. Thither will I go, Where no Citharon is polluted, where These eyes may never see Citharon more, And where no thyrsus wakes uneasy thought; To other Bacchic dames I leave these rites. CHO. With various hand the gods dispense our fates,
Now showering various blessings which our hopes
Dared not aspire to, now controlling ills We deemed inevitable. Thus the god To these hath given an end exceeding thought:
Such is the fortune of this awful day.
His locked, lettered braw brass collar Showed him the gentleman and scholar, But, though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, na 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 stawn't, as glad to see him, And 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 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 towzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black : His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, An' unco pack an' thick thegither, Wi' social nose whyles snuffed and snowkit Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit, Whyles scoured awa' in lang excursion An' worry'd ither in diversion,
* Cuchullin's dog, in Ossian's Fingal.
Until, wi' daffin weary grown, Upon a knowe they set them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation.
I've aften wondered, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies lived 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
An' naught 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 an' hunger; But-how it comes I never kenned yet― They're maistly wonderfu' contented, An' buirdly chiels an' clever hizzies Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huffed and cuffed and disrespeckit! Lord, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
As lang's my tail, whare through the steeks They gang as saucy by poor fo'k
The yellow lettered Geordie keeks.
Fra morn to e'en it's naught 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, we blastit wonner, Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner Better than ony tenant-man His Honor has in a' the lan',
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension.
As I wad by a stinking brock.
I've noticed on our laird's court-day- An' mony a a time heart's been wae- my 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 staun' 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.
They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think,
Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh, Though constantly on poortith's brink:
A cottar 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,
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight The view o't gies them little fright.
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided They're ay in less or mair provided ;
An', though fatigued wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives, The prattling things are just their pride That sweetens a' their fireside.
An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy Can mak' the bodies unco happy, They lay aside their private cares To mend the Kirk and State affairs: They'll talk o' patronage and priests Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's coming, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-faced Hallowmass returns They get the jovial, ranting kirns, When rural life o' ev'ry station Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins They bar the door on frosty winds ; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe an' sneeshin mill Are handed round wi' richt guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro' the house: My heart has been sae fain to see them That I fear joy hae barkit wi' them.
Still, it's owre true that ye hae said: Sie game is now owre aften played. There's monie a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k Are riven out, baith root and branch, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster In favor wi' some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin For Britain's guid his saul indentin.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it, "For Britain's guid"! Guid faith, I doubt it! Say rather gaun as premiers lead him, An' saying "Aye" or "No's" they bid him; At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading, Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To make a tour an' tak' a whirl, To learn bon ton an' see the warl'.
There, at Vienna or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails, Or by Madrid he takes the rout To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt, Then bouses drumly German water To mak' himsel' look fair and fetter. "For Britain's guid"! For her destruction, Wi' dissipation, feud an' faction.
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten an' harassed For gear to gang that gate at last?
Oh, would they stay aback frae courts An' please themsels wi' kintra sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant and the cotter; For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer,
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