TOWSER, A TRUE TALE. __ “Dogs are honest
Creatures, Ne’er fawn on any
that they love not, And I’m a friend
to dogs, They ne’er betray
their masters.” IN
mony an instance, without doubt, The man
may copy frae the brute, And by th’ example grow much wiser, Then, read the short memoirs of Towser. With
def’rence to our great Lavaters, Wha judge a’ mankind by the features, There’s mony a smiling, pleasant fac’d-cock, That wears a heart no worth a custock, While mony a visage, antic, droll, O’er-veils a noble, gen’rous soul. With Towser, this was just the case, He had an ill-faur't tawtie face, His mak’ was something like a messin, But big, an’ quite
unprepossessin’, His master caft 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; Yet in affairs of Love or
Honour, He’d stan’ his part amang a
hun’er, An’ whare’er fighting was a
merit, He never fail’d to shaw his spirit. He never girn'd in neighbour’s face, Wi’ wild ill natur’d scant o’
grace, Nor e’er accosted ane wi’ smiles, Then, soon as turn’d, wad bite
his heels, Nor ever kent the courtier art, To fawn wi’ rancor at his
heart, Nor aught kent he o’ cankert
quarlin’, Nor snarlin’ just for sake o’
snarlin’, Ye’d pinch him sair afore he’d
growl, Whilk ever shaws
a magnanimity of soul. But what adds maistly to his fame, An’ will immortalize his name-- “Immortalize!—presumptive wight! Thy lines are dull as darkest night, Without ae spark o’ wit or glee, To light 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
as ember, An’ growlin’ 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 burrow town, To buy some needments o’ his
own; An’ case some purse-pest soud
way-lay him, He took his trusty servant wi’ him. His bis’ness done, ’twas near the gloamin’, An’ ay the king o’ storms was
foamin’, The doors did ring--lum-pigs
down tuml’d, The strawns gush’d big—the
synks loud ruml’d; Auld grannies spread their
loves, an’ sigh’t, Wi’ “O Sirs! what an awfu' night!”-- Poor Towser shook his sides a’
draigl’d, An’s master grudg’d that he had
taigl'd; But wi’ his merchandizing load, Come weel, come wae, he took
the road. Now cluds drave
o'er the fields like drift, Night flung her black cleuk
o'er the lift; An’ thro’ the naked trees and
hedges, The horrid storm redoubl’d
rages; An’ to complete his piteous
case, It blew directly in his face.-- Whyles ’gainst the foot path
stabs he thumped, Whyles o'er the coots in holes
he plumped; But on he gaed, an’ on’ he
waded, Till he at length turn’d faint
and jaded; To gang he cou’d nae langer bide, But lay down by the bare
dyke-side-- Now, wife an’ bairns rush’d on
his soul, He groan’d—poor Towser loud did
howl, An mournin’ couret down aside him, But, Oh! his
master coudna’ heed him, For now his senses ’gan to
dozen, His vera life-streams maist
war’ frozen, An’t seem’d as if the cruel
skies, Exulted o'er their sacrifice; For fierce the win’s did o'er
him hiss, An’ dash’d the sleet on his
cauld face. As on a rock, far, far frae land, Twa ship-wreck’d sailors
shiv’ring stand, If chance a vessel they descry, Their hearts exult with instant
joy. Sae was poor Towser joy’d to
hear The tread o’ trav’llers drawing
near, He ran, an’ yowl’d, and fawn’d
upon ’em, But coudna’ mak’ them
understan’ him, Till tugging at the foremost’s
coat, He led them to the mournfu’
spot Where cauld, an’ stiff, his
master lay, To the rude storm a helpless
prey. Wi’ Caledonian sympathy, They bore him kindly on the
way, Until they reach’d a cottage
bein, They tauld the case, war’
welcom’d in-- The rousin’ fire,
the cordial drop, Restor’d him soon to life and
hope; Fond raptures beam’d in
Towser’s eye, An’ 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. |