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 deference to our great Lavaters, Wha judge o' mankind by their 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'erveils a noble, gen'rous soul. With Towser this was just the case, He had an ill-faur'd, tawtie 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 happ'd poor Towser's lot) He wadna tear a comrade's throat; Yet in affairs of love or honour He'd stand his part amang a hun'er, An' whare'er fighting was a merit, He never failed 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' rancour at his heart,
Nor aught kent he o' cankert quarreling,
Nor snarlin' just for sake o' snarlin'.
Ye'd pinch him sair afore he'd growl,
Whilk shows he had a mighty soul.

But what adds maistly to his fame,
An' will immortalize his name-
"Immortalize!-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,
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 should waylay him,
He took his trusty servant wi' him.

His business done, 'twas near the gloamin',
An' aye the king o' storms was foamin',
The doors did ring-lum-pigs down tumbl'd,
The strawns gush'd big, the sinks loud rumbl'd,
Auld grannies spread their looves, an' sigh'd,
Wi' "O, sirs! what an awfu' night!"
Poor Towser shook his sides a' draigl'd,
And's master grudged that he had taigl'd;
But wi' his merchandizing load,

Come weal, come wae, he took the road.
Now clouds drave o'er the fields like drift,
Night flung her black cleuk o'er the lift;
An' through the naked trees and hedges
The horrid storm redoubled rages;
An' 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 doun by the bare dyke-side.-
Now, wife an' bairns rush'd on his soul,
He groan'd-poor Towser loud did howl,
An' mourning cower'd doun aside 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,
An' dashed the sleet on his cauld face.

As on a rock, far, far frae land, Twa shipwreck'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' travellers drawing near; He ran an' 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.