"Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time."—BURNS.
One morn—it was the very morn
September's sportive month was born—
The hour, about the sunrise, early;
The sky gray, sober, still, and pearly,
With sundry orange streaks and tinges
Through daylight's door, at cracks and hinges:
The air, calm, bracing, freshly cool,
As if just skimm'd from off a pool;