On shooting two dogs that were worrying sheep on the night of the 3rd January, 1865.

Yan moonleet neet, at t’ edge o’ dark,

I stump’d about amang my wark ;

I just was crossin’ t’ yard, when – hark !

I stood still as a mouse :

I heard a dog baath growl an’ bark,

I’ t’ paster clooas to t’ house.


Says I, “ A fair haufcrown I’ll bet

Yon’s some ill-bred neet-huntin’ ket,

That’s come up here wi’ dog an’ net – 

I’ll see what they’re about. ”

I said na maar, but off I set

To try to find ’em out.


Reight cautiously, wi’ noiseless feet,

I trudged along ower t’ snah that neet, 

An’ on a hill, i’ t’ dim moonleet, 

I spied a terrier gray ; 

An’, when I com into it’s seet, 

It bark’d and ran away. 


An’ then I spied another thief — 

A girt an, too, as fat as beef, –

Says I, “ It is my firm belief 

That summat is amiss !

I doubt they’re up to some mischief, — 

An’ bless us ! what is this ? ” 


Then up I went to t’ wau to peep, 

An’ on a snah-drift, cowd an’ deep, 

Wi’ fleece au torn, I spied a sheep, 

An’ mony a bite did bleed : 

Then t’ truth into my mind did creep, — 

“ Them dogs hez done this deed. ” 


I thowt a bit what mud be done, 

Then into t’ house I went for t’ gun, 

An’ back as fast as I could run, 

An’ t’ dogs were baath at t’ spot, –

Says I, “ I’ll stop yer barb’rous fun – 

Ye’s taast a bit o’ shot. ” 


Ye sheep ! that roam on hills an’ banks, 

To me an’ my good gun give thanks ; 

We stopp’d their thievish worryin’ pranks 

Wi’ lile round bits o’ leead ; 

We med yan stretch his terrier-shanks, 

An’ lig amang the deead. 


An’ t’ other thief, that com to help, — 

That ugly, girt Newfoundland whelp, — 

It off as fast as it could skelp. –  

Thowt I, “ I’ll mack thee smart. ”

I shot ; it raised an awful yelp, 

An’ ran for t’ varra heart. 


Wi’ skill, baath times, I hit my mark, 

Though it was varra dim an’ dark ; 

I think I med a good neet’s wark, 

An’ yell na doubt think t’ saam : 

I sattled yan his ugly bark, 

An’ t’ other’s varra laam. 


Ye farmers round about, who keep 

Yer Scotland yows an’ hauf-bred sheep, 

May gang to bed content, an’ sleep 

Without a bit o’ fear : 

Na maar amang yer flocks they’ll creep ; 

I’ve stopp’d their mad career.