The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill :: :: University of Virginia Library

With def'rence to our great Lavaters,
Wha judge a' mankind by their features,
There 's a mony a smiling, pleasant-fac'd cock
That wears a heart no' worth a castock;
While mony a visage, antic, droll,
O'erveils a noble, gen'rous soul.
With Towser this was just the case:
He had an ill-faur'd tawted face,
His make was something like a messin,
But big, and quite unprepossessin'.
His master coft him frae some fallows,
Wha had him doom'd unto the gallows,
Because (sae hap'd poor Towser's lot)
He wadna tear a comrade's throat;

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Yet in affairs of love or honour
He 'd stand his part amang a hunner,
And where'er fighting was a merit
He never fail'd to show his spirit.

He never girn'd in neighbour's face
With wild, ill-natur'd scant of grace;
Nor e'er accosted ane with smiles,
Then, soon as turn'd, would bite his heels;
Nor ever kent the courtier art,
To fawn with rancour at his heart;
Nor aught kent he of cankert quarrelling,
Nor snarling just for sake of snarling:
Ye 'd pinch him sair afore he 'd growl,
Which shows he had a mighty soul.

But what adds maistly to his fame,
And will immortalise his name—
(Immortalise!—presumptuous wight!
Thy lines are dull as darkest night,
Without ae spark o' wit or glee
To licht them through futurity.
E'en be it sae)—poor Towser's story,
Though lamely tauld, will speak his glory.

'Twas in the month o' cauld December,
When nature's fire seem'd just an ember,
And growling winter bellow'd forth
In storms and tempests frae the north,
When honest Towser's loving master,
Regardless o' the surly bluster,
Set out to the neist borough town
To buy some needments of his own,
And, case some purse-pest should waylay him,
He took his trusty servant wi' him.

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His business done, 'twas near the gloaming,
And aye the king o' storms was foaming;
The doors did ring—lum-pigs down tumbl'd—
The strands gush'd big—the sinks loud rumbl'd;
Auld grannies spread their looves, and sigh'd,
Wi' “Oh, sirs! what an awfu' night!”
Poor Towser shook his sides a' draigl'd,
And 's master grudg'd that he had taigl'd;
But, wi' his merchandizing load,
Come weel, come wae, he took the road.
Now clouds drave o'er the fields like drift,
Night flung her black cloak o'er the lift,
And through the naked trees and hedges
The horrid storm, redoubled, rages;
And, to complete his piteous case,
It blew directly in his face.
Whiles 'gainst the footpath stabs he thumped,
Whiles o'er the coots in holes he plumped;
But on he gaed, and on he waded,
Till he at length turn'd faint and jaded.
To gang he could nae langer bide,
But lay down by the bare dyke-side.—
Now, wife and bairns rush'd on his soul;
He groan'd—poor Towser loud did howl,
And, mourning, cower'd down beside him;
But, oh! his master couldna heed him,
For now his senses 'gan to dozen,
His vera life-streams maist were frozen,
An 't seemed as if the cruel skies
Exulted o'er their sacrifice;
For fierce the winds did o'er him hiss,
And dashed the sleet on his cauld face.

As on a rock, far, far frae land,
Twa shipwreck'd sailors shiv'ring stand,

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If chance a vessel they descry,
Their hearts exult with instant joy;
Sae was poor Towser joy'd to hear
The tread of trav'llers drawing near.
He ran, and yowl'd, and fawn'd upon 'em,
But couldna make them understand him,
Till, tugging at the foremost's coat,
He led them to the mournfu' spot,
Where, cauld and stiff, his master lay,
To the rude storm a helpless prey.

With Caledonian sympathy
They bore him kindly on the way,
Until they reach'd a cottage bien.
They tauld the case, were welcom'd in.
The rousing fire, the cordial drop,
Restor'd him soon to life and hope;
Fond raptures beam'd in Towser's eye,
And antic gambols spake his joy.

Wha reads this simple tale may see
The worth of sensibility,
And learn frae it to be humane—
In Towser's life he sav'd his ain.