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But see a narrow grave is dug,
Beneath the apple tree,
Dead Towser on his knee.
And tears are streaming from his eyes,
A sorry child I ween,
Shall gambol on the green.
And sadly he looks on its face,
For all their joy is o'er, They'll hunt the squirrel in the woods,
And tree the coon no more.
He wonders how the birds can sing,
And he so full of care, And how the children laugh and shout,
And Towser lying there.
And now he stands and talks to it,
And pats it on the neck, And then he sits him down and cries,
As if his heart would break.
And now he tries to understand,
And vainly strives to comprehend,
And now he lays it quietly,
And covers it, and gently smooths
And long he lingers by the grave,
Unwilling to depart,
Has settled on his heart.
But of the world he's living in,
And may he never, never taste,
Ye're turning auld Towser,
Your teeth's nearly gane; And ye hae a sair faught noo,
To hirple your lane. Ah, times are sair alter'd
Wi' baith you and me, And the days we hae seen,
We can never mair see.
I'm wearin' doun wi' you,
For Time, weel I ken, Is no a bit partial
To dowgs or to men. It canna be lang till
We baith get the ca', And gone and forgotten
By ane and by a'.
But ye were aye faithfu',
Say that o' mysel.
Ye never kept spite— Your bark it was always
Far waur than your bite.
And there was baith wisdom
And wit in your face; And thy stature proclaimed thee
The lord of thy race. Baith big, black, and gaucy,
A great tousy tyke, As e'er chased a beggar,
Or lap owre a dike.
Ye never took up wi'
Your friens were a' social,
And they would fraise wi' you,
Or start up a squirrel,
Great was your contempt for
The wee barkin' dowgs, The things that hunt rations,
Wi' noses like pugs; Whan they would rush out and
Bark up in your face, Ye seemed to think shame they
Belanged to your race.
I whiles thocht ye had a
Bit spite at the pigs,— What fun ye had chasing
Them doun the lee rigs? Your bark was mair wicked—
It wasna the same
Or ocht about hame.
You never were beat whaur
But that time ye tackled