1824 Poem, George Dugall, ‘To Mrs. W—, B—d, With a Little Dog’
Author: George Dugall
Date: 1824
Source: Poem: ‘To Mrs. W—, B—d, With a Little Dog’, from The Northern Cottage and other poems; written partly in the Dialect of the North of Ireland by George Dugall (Londonderry: William McCorkell, 1824)
Comments: George Dugall (c.1790-1855) was the son of Rev. George Dugall, Presbyterian minister of Magherafelt from 1786-1810, and lived most of his life near Newtowncunningham in Donegal. He was a schoolteacher in north Donegal, and his only book of poems The Northern Cottage contains an extensive glossary of Ulster-Scots words. The vocabulary and cultural context of his poems are rich in Ulster-Scots reference.
Doc. ref. no.: USLS/TB/Poetry/1800-1899/052
To Mrs. W—, B—d,
With a little Dog
My fav’rite Crab, to you I send him,
Wi’ twa’r three lines to recommend him;
His hist’ry an’ himsel’ thegither,
I’m no right certain wha’s his father:
*** ****’s dog has got the wyte,
Poor chiel because he is na white;
For the resemblance is nae fuller,
Than just the temper an’ the colour:
We might as fast, or may be faster,
Father negroes on his master:
But drapping a’ such doubtfu’ matters,
Crab’s nae discredit till his betters —
A cleaner whalp for hide an’ hair,
Ne’er grac’d the lap o’ lady fair:
For flaes there’s nae sic thing about him;
(Still ye may look him if ye doubt him:)
But faith, tak’ care ye be na nickit;
For though he’s wee he’s very wickit.
His mither’s o’ the terrier breed,
But higher by the neck an’ head;
A crafty, kindly, sportive plague,
She’ll follow clods, or sit an’ beg:
Yet, nae reflection on her merit,
I hope he’ll hae a better spirit.
(For meanness still, Gude bless you bang him;
An’ if you canna cure him — hang him.)
Her owner for me lang did pet him;
’Twas nae wee compliment to get him:
The man is o’ a diff’rent creed,
But frien’ly baith in word an’ deed;
Were men by lump like this gude fellow,
A justice ne’er would been heard tell o’.
I gie Crab up to your ain breeding,
But dinna turn him to the Meeting;
For he’s a mass-man staunch an’ steady,
An’ has refus’d the church already:
You didna use to be a bigot;
Sae for your credit dinna speak o’t.
I’ll say’t while e’er he keeps his scent,
He’ll ne’er be scrupulous o’ Lent;
Nor will he, ever honor’d Madam,
Ere keep a fast, when you forbid him.
You’ve such a trick o’ spoiling weans,
I doubt you’ll scatter a’ my pains,
For were he biding in my rule,
I’d had him shortly at the school;
And tak’ my word for’t, he’s a messin,
That’s nae way backward at his lesson.
He cuts, forbye his quick retention,
Ten capers o’ his ain invention:
In devilry he’s grown sae pat,
He’ll chase the hens, an’ ride the cat;
Wha sometimes taks a spitting fling,
An’ sen’s him yelping frae the ring.
Wi’ tooth an’ nail he tears their claes,
An’ scrapes an’ worries Peggy’s taes;
An’ heedless o’ her mither’s flogging,
He’ll stap his head in Marg’ret’s noggin.
You ken I wish to sen’ him decent;
An’ troth ye ha’e a stirring present:
Sae, while ye live, in ev’ry weather,
I wish you happy days thegither.