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Ye'd pinch him sair afore he'd growl,
Whilk shows he had a mighty soul.
But what adds maistly to his fame,
And will immortalize his name —
" Immortalize ! — presumptive wight !
Thy lines are dull as darkest night,
Without ae spark o' wit or glee,
To light them through futurity."
E'en be it sae, poor Towser's story,
Though lamely tauld, will speak his glory.
'Twas in the month o' cauld December,
When nature's fire seem'd just an ember,
And growling Winter bellow'd forth
In storms and tempests frae the norths
When honest Towser's loving master,
Regardless o' the surly bluster,
Set out to the neist burrow town,
To buy some needments of his own,
And, case some purse-pest shou'd way-lay him,
He took his trusty servant wi' him.,

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