Let him behold his death and own their !

power.

CHORUS. Cadmus, we grieve for thee; thy

daughter's son

Hath his reward-just, though it pains thy

heart.

BACCHUS. Oh, father, for my state now

changed thou seest,

Thou and thy loved Harmonia, who from Mars Descended graced thy bed, though mortal thou,

CAD. Il suits the gods frail man's relentless wrath.

BAC. Long since my father Jove thus graced his son.

AGA. Ah me! it is decreed-unhappy exile.

CAD. Alas, my daughter, in what dreadful ills

Are we all plunged, thy sisters, and thyself | Unhappy! I shall bear my wretched age To sojourn with barbarians, fated yet

Shall wear a dragon's savage form. With To lead a mixed barbaric host to Greece;

ment.

Brought on thy house this dreadful punish- | His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, CAD. Dreadful through you my sufferings; But whalpit some place far abroad Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

every tongue
Shall sound my name with infamy in Thebes.

AGA. Farewell, my father.
CAD.
My unhappy child,
Thou too farewell, if aught can now be well.
AGA. Lead, my attendants, lead me to my
sisters,

That I may take them with me, of my flight
Mournful associates. Thither will I go,
Where no Citharon is polluted, where
These eyes may never see Citharon more,
And where no thyrsus wakes uneasy thought;
To other Bacchic dames I leave these rites.
CHO. With various hand the gods dispense
our fates,

Now showering various blessings which our
hopes

Dared not aspire to, now controlling ills
We deemed inevitable. Thus the god
To these hath given an end exceeding
thought:

Such is the fortune of this awful day.

His locked, lettered braw brass collar
Showed him the gentleman and scholar,
But, though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride, na pride had he,
But wad hae spent an hour caressin'
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stawn't, as glad to see him,
And 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 his freaks 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,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place;
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black :
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swurl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither,
Wi' social nose whyles snuffed and snowkit
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit,
Whyles scoured awa' in lang excursion
An' worry'd ither in diversion,

* Cuchullin's dog, in Ossian's Fingal.

Until, wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they set them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

CÆSAR.

I've aften wondered, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like
poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies lived ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain and 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 bonnie silken purse

An' naught but his han' darg to keep
Them right and 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 kenned yet―
They're maistly wonderfu' contented,
An' buirdly chiels an' clever hizzies
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then to see how ye're negleckit,
How huffed and cuffed and disrespeckit!
Lord, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;

As lang's my tail, whare through the steeks They gang as saucy by poor fo'k

The yellow lettered Geordie keeks.

Fra morn to e'en it's naught but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' though the gentry first are stechin,
Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic-like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, we blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner
Better than ony tenant-man
His Honor has in a' the lan',

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.

LUATH.

As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've noticed on our laird's court-day-
An' mony a
a time heart's been wae-
my
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 staun' 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.

LUATH.

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think,

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh, Though constantly on poortith's brink:

A cottar howkin in a sheugh,

Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic-like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee-duddie weans,

They're sae accustomed wi' the sight
The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided
They're ay in less or mair provided ;