Poems And Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hast got thy breakfast, brother Cuddy,
And laid thee doun in peace to study
How thy life's stream is made sae muddy
By paidlin' Fate,
And how earth's ills upon thy body
Like slaves await?

Some say nae thochts harass the brute;
But that conclusion ane micht doot:
While thy puir life is draggin' out
On some rough hill,
To guess what ye may think aboot,
Defies man's skill.

Thou of hard toil hast aye thy share,
Thy faithfu' sides are worn rib-bare,
Thy shirpit rump o' flesh and hair,
Sae lean and scanty,
Wi' forcefu' eloquence declare
Thy griefs owre plenty.

How aft and sairly thou's been paikit,
How aft at meal-time been negleckit,
How aft thy richts been disrespeckit
Because an ass,
Is in thy ee's sad tale refleckit
As in a glass.

Aft hast thou borne that bitter joke
(While thy lame lord took dram and smoke,
And thou stood weary o' thy yoke
And hunger's throes),
The lang, provokin', toom bran-pock
Hung at thy nose.

Some maister o' the whippin' art,
And cursed wi' an inhuman heart,
Will torture thee to mak' thee smart,
Till aff its wheels
Thou kicks thy rickle o' a cart
Wi' angry heels.

Thy race, poor beast! have ever trod
Low on affliction's eerie road,
Aye since the prophet-loon bestrode
Thy learned forebear;—
Still doomed some petty tyrant's nod
And lash to fear.

And though a colt o' thy scorned kin'
Was honoured 'mang the brutes langsyne
By Him o' lineage divine,
We never see
That men the sacred honour min'
For good to thee.

I wish I had the skill to trace
Back through the annals o' thy race,
To see if every cuddy's face
O' thy lang line,
Had meekness graved on't wi' sic grace
As 'tis on thine.

And whence that air o' injured patience?
Was it first caused by lack o' rations,
When samples o' earth's hairy nations
Auld Noah saved?
Or had anterior vexations
The air engraved?

Wore they that air whom Adam christened
Ere they to the expulsion listened,
And ere they frae green Eden hastened
Their way to take,
While wondering why they should be chastened
For Adam's sake?

Perhaps while by new instinct taught
That life was with new dangers fraught,
And while the grassy plains they sought,
Filled with strange fear,
Their faces the expression caught
Their kind still wear.

But stranger things are tauld o' thee—
How thou, on Christ's nativity,
Stan'st by thy crib wi' watchfu' ee
Till midnight chaps,
When, like a saint, upon thy knee
Reverend thou draps.

And some there are who maist will swear
The sacred symbol thou dost bear,
Was gi'en thy kindred first to wear
When Jesus said,
While rang the vulgar hoot and jeer,
“'Tis finishèd.”

If this be true—and so it may—
Nae yoke should men upon thee lay,
But suffer thee at large to stray
The fields amang,
And think thy wild discordant bray
Earth's sweetest sang.

Instead o' that, thy days o' rest
And play, rare things maun be confest;
And but for this, the warkman's best,
His weekly star,
Puir Cuddy! ye wad be opprest
Waur than ye are.

Were sic poor slaves as thou and I
But forced to toil through wat and dry,
Withoot a moment to defy
The serpent Care,
Withoot a day o' rest to lie
In caller air;

Thir frames o' ours would soon be wasted—
The flower o' life be labour-blasted—
The dregs o' life be early tasted—
Soon grey ilk head;
And dissolution on us hasted
Wi' railway speed.

Farewell, my humble hairy brither!
Thy cadger-lord will lead thee thither,
And we nae mair may meet thegither;
But ance I've met thee,
And, by the cross upon thy shouther,
I'll ne'er forget thee!