* It is related of the Dale Farmers, in ancient times, that, as soon as Harvest was over, they put away the Herd and hanged the Dog.

LANGSYNE the poor, wee Herds might mourn,
When there were neither ditch nor thorn,
To wear the brutes frae' mang the corn
In cauld, wat weather:
Poor things! their claes were reft an' torn!
Cauld made them shiver!

In June an' July, wasps an' clegs
Made a' the brutes fling we' their legs,
An' startle into burns an' craigs
To koole their skin;
The poor, wee herd, wi hacket legs,
Comes far behin'!

When harvest chanced to be late,
The wee, poor Herd, baith young an' blate,
Must stan' arout, baith soon an' late,
Wi kie an' naigs:
When a's got in, syne he must slit
Though a' in rags!

When hemp was pow'd, an' stacks were crown'd,
The Farmer then did sleep fu' sound:
His cares an' sorrows a' were drown'd
I' the kirn night;
Fine swats, in bickers, then went round
Till fair day light.

Then Herd an' hairst Folk a' did slit:
Their heads were fair an' like to split:
Each, like a souter, bang'd his kit
Upo' his back,
Syne, through the burn, an' owre the bent,
Each tell'd his crack.

Poor Colly yewll'd, an stood aside
The Herd, when he threw by his plaid,
An' said, O Jock, wilt thou but bide
This Winter here?
I'm fear'd hard fate may me betide
Before niest year!

Jock said, Poor dog, an' pats his head,
An' says, for thee my heart does bleed:
Thou keept me easy; when weel fed,
Baith horse an' kye
Stood awe o' thee, an' from thee fled,
When I did cry.

Poor Colly bowes, wi dool an' care,
An' says, O Jock, I hunted sair;
I baith the heels an' tails did tear;
I had few marrows;
But now, alas! I quake for fear
O' shot or gallows!

When I am idle an' weel fed,
Tis likely I may stroll abroad,
An' do what my fore-fathers did,
Seek after sport;
On my return, some cry, I'm mad,
They'll hae me shot.

Should I be hampert o' my meat,
Lick cog, wi' deil-be-licket in't;
My tail droops then amang my feet,
I scent and smell,
An' search the moors to fin' dead sheep,
My wame to fill.

Then when the shepherds do me spy,
They fast will raise the hue and cry,
An' say, Lets run, we'll him o'er hie,
Ere he win hame;
Where we him fin', we'll make him die,
None dare us blame.

Jock says, Poor dog! I see thy fate
Is hard; shouldst thou be lean or fat,
By enemies thou art aye beset,
Baith late and soon;
Come go wi me, to yon wee spat,
Till Winter's doon.

Then i' the Spring, we baith will rise,
When gouk does kook an' swallow flies;
Then we'll appear without disguise,
In some guid day,
An' gang to hills that's near the skies,
There get flot-whey.


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