A dreadful plague, the like was sindle seen,
Coost mony a beast wame upwards on the green.
By thousands down to Acheron they sank,
To dander ages on the dowie bank
Because they lay unburied on the sward.
The sick survivers cou'dna give them eard.
The wowf and tod with sighing spent the day.
Their sickly stamacks scunner'd at the prey.
Fowls droop the wing, the bull neglects his love.
Scarce crawl the sheep and weakly horses move.
The bauldest brute that haunt Numidian glens
Ly panting out their lives in dreary dens.
Thick lay the dead and thick the pain'd and weak.
The prospect gart the awfu' lyon quake.
HE ca's a council. "Ah! my friends," said he,
"‘Tis for some horrid faut sae mony die,
Sae heaven permits. Then let us a' confess
With open breast, our crimes baith mair and less;
That the revengefu' gods may be appeas'd,
When the maist guilty wight is sacrific'd.
Fa't on the feyest, I shall first begin,
And awn what e'er my conscience ca's a sin.
The sheep and deer I've worried, now alace!
Crying for vengeance, glowr me i' the face.
Forby their herd, poor man! to croun my treat,
Limb after limb, with bloody jaws I ate.
Ah! glutton me! what murders have I done!
Now say about, confess ilk ane as soon
And frank as I." — "Sire," says the pawky tod,
"Your tenderness bespeaks you haf a god!
Worthy to be the monarch of the grove,
Worthy your friends' and a' your subjects' love.
Your scruples are too nice. What's harts or sheep?
An idiot crowd, which for your board ye keep.
And where's the sin for ane to take his ain?
Faith ‘tis their honour, when by you they're slain.
Neist, what's their herd? A man! our deadly fae,
Wha o'er us beasts pretends a fancy'd sway,
And ne'er makes banes o't when 'tis in his power
With guns and bows our nation to devour."
He said — and round the courtiers all and each
Applauded Lawrie for his winsome speech.
THE tyger, bair, and ev'ry powerfu' fur,
Down to the wilcat, and the snarling cur
Confest their crimes; but wha durst ca' them crimes
Except themsells.
THE ass, dull thing! neist in his turn confest
That, being with hunger very sair opprest,
In o'er a dike he shot his head ae day
And rugg'd three mouthfu's off a ruck of hay
But speering leave. Said he, "Some wicked deil
Did tempt me frae the parish priest to steal."
He said — and all at ains the powerfu' croud
With open throats cry'd hastily and loud:
"This gypsie ass deserves ten deaths to die,
Whase horid guilt brings on our misery."
A gaping wowf, in office, straight demands
To have him burnt or tear him where he stands.
Hanging, he said, was an o'er easy death,
He shou'd in tortures yield his latest breath.
"What break a bishop's yard! Ah crying guilt!
Which nought can expiate till his blood be spilt."
The lyon signs his sentence: "Hang and draw."
Sae poor lang lugs maun pay the kane for a'.
Hence we may ken, how power has eith the knack
To whiten red and gar the blew seem black.
They'll start at winle straes, yet never crook,
When interest bids, to lowp out o'er a stowk.
A dreidfu plague, the like wes sindle seen,
Coost monie a beast wame upwart on the green.
Bi thoosans doon til Acheron thay sank,
Ti dander ages on the doowie bank
Acause thay lay unbuirit on the sweard.
The seek survivers coudna gie thaim eard.
The oof an tod wi sichin spent the day.
Thair seekly stamacks scunnered at the prey.
Fowls droop the wing, the bull neglects his leuve.
Scarce crool the sheep an waikly horses meuve.
The bauldest bruit that hant Numidian glens
Ly pantin oot thair leeves in drearie dens.
Thick lay the deid an thick the pyned an waik.
The prospect gairt the awfu lion quaik.
He caws a cooncil. "Ah! ma freens," sayd he,
'Tis for some horrid faut sae monie dee,
Sae heiven permeets. Then let us aw confess
Wi appen breist, oor crimes baith mair an less;
That the revengefu gods may be appeased,
Whan the maist guilty wicht is secrifeesed.
Fa't on the feyest, Ah sall first begin,
An awn what e'er ma conscience caws a sin.
The sheep an deer Ah've worried, noo alace!
Cryin for vengeance, glowr me i the face.
Forby thair herd, puir man! ti croon ma treat,
Limm efter limm, wi bluidy jaws Ah eat.
Ah! glutton me! what murthers have Ah daen!
Noo say aboot, confess ilk ane as suin
An frank as I." "Sire," says the paukie tod,
Yer tenderness bespeiks ye haf a god!
Worthy ti be the monarch o the greuve,
Worthy yer freens' an aw yer subjecks' leuve.
Yer scruples err tae nice. What's harts or sheep?
An eediot crood, whilk for yer brod ye keep.
An whair's the sin for ane ti tek his ain?
Faith 'tis thair honor, whan bi you thay're slain.
Neist, what's thair herd? A man! oor deidly fae,
Wha ower us beasts pertends a fancie'd sway,
An neer meks bains o't whan 'tis in his pooer
Wi guns an bowes oor nation ti devoor."
He sayd, an roond the coortiers aw an each
Applaudit Lowrie for his winsome speech.
The tyger, bair, an ivry powerfu fur,
Doon til the wullcat, an the snarlin cur
Confest thair crimes; but wha durst caw thaim crimes
Except thaimsels?
The ass, dull thing! neist in his turn confest
That, bein wi hunger verra sair opprest,
In ower a dyke he shot his heid ae day
An rugged three moothfus aff a ruck o hay
But speerin leave. Sayd he, "Some wickit deil
Did tempt me frae the pairish priest ti steal."
He sayd, an aw at yince the pooerfu crood
Wi appen throats cried heistily an lood:
"This gypsie ass desers ten daiths ti dee,
Whase horrid guilt brings on oor meeserie."
A gawpin oof, in office, straucht demands
Ti have him brunt or teir him whair he stands.
Hanging, he sayd, wes an ower easy daith,
He shoud in torturs yield his latest braith.
"What! brek a bishop's yaird! A cryin guilt!
Whilk nocht can expiett till his bluid be spilt."
The lion signs his sentence: "Hang an draw."
Sae puir langlugs man pey the kane for aw.
Hyne we may ken, hoo pooer haes eith the knack
Ti whiten reid an gar the blew seem black.
Thay'll stairt at winle straes, yet niver creuk,
Whan interest bids, ti lowp oot ower a stowk.