ON THE DEATH OF BUFFIE

GAE tell to a’ the hunters roun,
That Geordie’s heart is sair cast down;
Wi’ hirplin’ step he treads the groun’,
An’ hingin’ head.
Buffie, the wale o’ youthfu’ houn’s,
Puir Buffie’s dead.

Let ilka tod frae Butler’s hill
To Allen’s swamp an’ Merrick’s rill,
For vera joy bark loud an’ shrill
Wi’ muckle glee.
Puir Buffie’s lyin’ stark and still
Out owre the lea.

Had he been slain in open day
By hoof or horn o’ stag at bay,
I wadna hae the heart to say
It did him wrang:
’Tis murd’rous an’ unmanly play
That gies the pang.

Na doubt but he at times might draw
Ae sned o’ beef wi’ thievin’ jaw,
Or, aiblins on fine nights might blaw
About the street,
But if that faut’s agin’ the law,
He couldna see’t.

Perhaps he might in pleasant weather
Wi’ ither tykes sometime foregather
To fyke on grocer’s wares. But whether
He did or not,
In spite o’ a’ their scauldin’ blether’s
A triflin’ faut.

He maks the fourth o’ lang eared frien’s
Wha followed me o’er hills an’ glens
Until they met untimely ends
By murder sair.
Their fauts were something less than men’s,
Their virtues mair.

But Buffie dog, a long fareweel!
Nae doubt ye were a roguish chiel:—
But aiblins there’s anither field
Where thou an’ I
Maun chance to fin’ a cantie bield
Ayont the sky.