When the road was fo dark, and the night was fo cold,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,

How fnugly we slept in my old coat of

grey,

And he lick'd me for kindnefs-my poor dog Tray.

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Though my wallet was fcant, I remember'd his cafe,

Nor refus'd my last crust to his pitiful face;

But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a fad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now fhall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my fweet native village, fo far far away,

I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

GLASGOW:

THE END.

PRINTED BY JAMES MUNDELL,

AYTON COURT.

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