Imágenes de páginas

But see a narrow grave is dug,

Beneath the apple tree,
And little Johnny's sitting there,

Dead Towser on his knee.

And tears are streaming from his eyes,

A sorry child I ween,
For with him Towser never more,

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,
How life hangs on a breath,

And vainly strives to comprehend,
This awful thing called death.

And now he lays it quietly,
Within the narrow bed,

And covers it, and gently smooths
The turf upon its head.

And long he lingers by the grave,

Unwilling to depart,
For this is the first sorrow that,

Has settled on his heart.

But of the world he's living in,
'Tis little he does know,

And may he never, never taste,
A deeper draught of woe.


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',

Whatever befel;
I whiles wish that I could

Say that o' mysel.
And after your battles,

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'
The wild fechtin' dowgs,

Your friens were a' social,
Wi' lang hingin' lugs;

And they would fraise wi' you,
And beek in the sun;

Or start up a squirrel,
And chase it for fun.

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
That ye gied to the beggars

Or ocht about hame.

You never were beat whaur
The fechtin' was fair,

But that time ye tackled
The big raucle bear:

« AnteriorContinuar »