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Robert Burns had a favourite dog called “Luath” (Gaelic for quick or fast). He wrote this great poem contrasting the lives of the gentry with that of their cottars by creating a discussion between dogs owned by the laird and the ploughman. He immortalised his old canine friend by naming him in the poem. Due to the length, I have recorded only the introduction, the poem continues with the dialogue between the dogs. It is well worth a read of the complete text – if you don’t already know it, seek it out.

'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' a 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,

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.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,

And unco pack an' thick thegither;

Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit;

Whiles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;

Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,

An' worry'd ither in diversion;

Until wi' daffin' weary grown

Upon a knowe they set them down.

An' there began a lang digression.

About the "lords o' the creation."

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