Analysis of The Twa Dogs
Robert Burns 1759 (Alloway) – 1796 (Dumfries)
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearin' thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the gentleman an' scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' al tinkler-gipsy's messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie-
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in freak had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland Sang,
Was made lang syne,-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdie's wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
And unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit;
Whiles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin' weary grown
Upon a knowe they set them down.
An' there began a lang digression.
About the 'lords o' the creation.'
I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonie silken purse,
As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner,
Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honour has in a' the lan':
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.
Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, an' sic like;
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han'-daurk, to keep
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape.
An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger:
But how it comes, I never kent yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit!
Lord man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, -
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, -
Poor tenant bodies, scant o'cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash;
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
They're no sae wretched's ane wad think.
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink,
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided:
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.
An' whiles t
Scheme | AXBBCC DDEXFX DDGGBBFFCC GGCCHH IIJJKKLL DDFFMMXXMM XNXX XEAXXXEE OOBBDDDDPPXM NQIIXEXX RRDDXSEX FFTTXX XXQQXXTT XE UUVV SSWW XXXX G |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 10111101 11011111 0101101 111001 11101111 110101 011111110 11111010 11111111 11111101 1111101 11011111 11101110 110100110 11111101 01011111 11111101 111110011 11110111 11111011 1111111111 11111111 0110110 010101010 11111111 0011111 10110101 11111111 1101111 11010111 110111 11110101 1111111 11111101 1111101 1111101 11110111 011111 11011111 111111 110101010 1110010 01110101 01011111 110101010 010110010 1110101 111111111 1101111 11110110 10110111 11111011 1101111 1110101 11111111 1101101 11111101 010101001 1111111110 110101010 11010111 111011111 1111111 1101111 10101101 110111010 1011101 1110001 111111110 11111010 1101111 011001 1101101 10010111 1011101 011111 11111111 11110111 111111010 111111110 111101110 111111110 111111011 111010 1111101 110101111 11111111 111111 1110101110 1111110 11110111 1111011 110110111 110011111 11010111 1111011 11110111 1011111 11111110 111011110 111111110 11011111 1111111 1100111 11010101 011111101 110101110 110111010 110111010 011101010 01010111 111111 01011111 11001101 111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,154 |
Words | 770 |
Sentences | 24 |
Stanzas | 18 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 6, 10, 6, 8, 10, 4, 8, 12, 8, 8, 6, 8, 2, 4, 4, 4, 1 |
Lines Amount | 115 |
Letters per line (avg) | 28 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 176 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 42 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 30, 2023
- 4:08 min read
- 293 Views
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"The Twa Dogs" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 6 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/30587/the-twa-dogs>.
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