University of Virginia Library

The Presbyterian Pope.

Kirk Treasurer.
Dawty, how goes the honest trade?
Waesucks to see you sae ill clad,
I kend whan ye was right well fed,
Look'd fat and fair;
At which my heart was unco glad,
But now 'tis sair.
I dow na bide to see you traiked,
Wi' bachel'd shoon, and a---se half naked,
As if the very streets you raked,
Wi' skin sae blae,
The daft young lairds should a' be paiked,
That lets't be sae.
Nae body hears us; tell me, Meg,
Wi' wham ye lifted last your leg,
For ilk ane kens ye manna beg,
Though stocks be low;
Now tell the truth and dinna' fleg,
Was't wi' a beau?
Anes a' your customers I kend;
For then you made a bonny send,
And wrought sae close wi' your daft end,
Baith day and night,
Ye ay had boddles for to spend,
And that was right.

Meg.
Sin' you came on, my trade's been dead,
How can young lasses get their bread!
Ah! John, the d---'s in your greed,
You grip at a',
I think my very heart will bleed,
I'll break my ga'.
I canna' get salt to my kail,
Though anes I tauld a bonny tale.
For twenty shillings, as dock-mail,
Each night I got,
But now, since trade began to fail,
Scarce win a groat.
For should I walk to Abbey yards,
To catch bra' officers and lairds,
Invite them in to play at cards,
And drink and crack,
Behold a party of the guards
Is at our back.
Beadles will harle me by the gown,
A warld's wonder through the town,
Shop keepers wives cry there's a lown,
Halloo the bawd,
Me to correction-house send down,
And put me mad.
The fowk before that had your place,
Wad pity'd me in sic a case;
They never pat me to disgrace
To make sic trips,
My bennison light on their face,
We ran ay snips.
They kend 'twas me that fill'd their banks,
And kindly said, Meg, play your pranks
Wi' married fowk, we'll gi' you thanks,
Fa' close to wark;
Ha'e, there's silk stockings to your shanks,
And a new sark.
Indeed I manna' do them wrang,
John Couper was their aid-de-cang.
Aft on the streets wi' me did gang,
He kend his craft,
That makes his purse the day sae strang,
And puts him daft.
Mony kirk-treas'rer I've made rich,
I learn'd my art to sic a pitch,
They ca'd me ay their setting b---h;
Well did I set
Covies of lairds; syne, in a touch,
John drew his net:
Scarcely was I thrown on the bed
Whan John pap'd in his bogle head,
Said, gentles, there is nae remead,
I'm very sure;
Guard, carry these folks aff wi' speed,
And that vile whore.
Fy on ye, sirs, to lead sic lives,
Ye that have dainty bairns and wives,
'Twere an alms-deed to cut wi' knives
Your gear awa';
'Tis fowk like you that never thrives,
Fy on you a'.
Yet, if you promise to turn better,
I'll not affront you for the matter,
To the kirk-treasurer write a letter,
Come in his will;
Lay down the talents, or be debtor,
By band or bill.

K. Treas.
Na', Meg, you're e'en worth gowd, I vow,
We canna want the like of you,
Serve me that way, and ye's no rue,
But mense your kin,
Slip in to company that's fou,
And tempt to sin.
I'll mind you in my pray'rs, we should
Wish well to them that do us good,
I hope by you to get my food,
I need not fear't;
My bird, ha'e there's a bra' new hood,
Well may you wear't.
Meg, you that make a trade of sinning,
Shou'd ay be cleanly in your linen,
And trip as trig as ony kinnin;
Why should ye droop?
Ye've got a better trade than spinning,
E'en buy a hoop.
'Twas a raw sinner at the game,
(For at the first ye a' think shame)
Contriv'd them for to hide her wame,
Whan it grew big,
I winna' tell the lady's name,
She was a W---g.
Now, shou'd not this keep up your heart,
That quality do take your part,
That they shou'd study ev'ry art
Practis'd by you?
Gae 'bout your business, and look smart,
Ye's find me true.

Meg.
There's some fowk wou'd there manhood try,
And with a pretty young wench ly,
For that end would a licence buy,
And have your leave,
And that's the thing you'll no deny,
As I believe.
Master, be pleas'd to take a fee,
And frae the creepie make them free,
What profit is't to you or me,
To spoil their sport?

K. Treas.
Meg, bring them here, and we'll agree,
There's my word for't.

Meg.
My master's as great as the pope;
(Papist rogue, gi'e him a rope)
He keeps a Presbyterian shop,
Pardons to sell,
And he'll turn wond'rous rich I hope,
He's turn'd sae fell.
Popes shut up nuns with iron-gates,
And will not let them do fine feats,
But our kind master, father Y---s.
Dawts his ain bawds,
As if they were his bairns, and lets
Them play wi' lads.
The nuns are burnt that play wi' fryars,
Or else there mony ane that's liars,
But the kirk-treas'rer never spiers,
He's nae sae rash,
Wi' wham we ly for twenty years,
If he get cash.
Incest, or ony other sin,
We may commit wi' nearest kin,
And yet come aff wi' a hail skin,
'Tis his behoof,
Wi' fowk not to make meikle din,
That criesh his loof,
But, if we have nae thing to spare,
Then we maun rin wi' shoulders bare,
Dalgliesh's tause makes us sae sair,
That they flae us,
Thrawn carle! I'm sure he wad na care
For to slae us.

K. Treas.
Meg, we stay on but for a year,
If in that time we get na' gear,
We'll e'en starve when we're auld, I fear,
Be hungry slaves;
To speak the truth, and not to jeer,
We're e'en a' knaves.

Meg.
Master, the greater knave the better,
The only way for to rise greater,
For honesty will scarce hald water,
A tale hum drum,
If money's got, what d---l's the matter
What way it come?
I laugh to see the fowk look blate,
Wha pay and get na a receipt,
Ye neither set down day nor date,
'Tis a bra' sport,
An honest piece of deep deceit;
Fair fa' you for't.

K. Treas.
Na hussy, should I grant them lines,
And tell how much I got for fines,
'Twad gar me count with our divines,
I'm very sure;
Shame fa' the treas'rer never minds
To help the poor.
Judas, wha was kirk-treas'rer first,
For cheating of the kirk, was curst,
He hang'd himself, and syne he burst,
For ae poor faut,
Had he in a' our tricks been nurs'd,
He'd ne'er done that.
Tho' we the kirk do daily plunder,
Cheating her out of mony a hunder,
If we hang ourselves, 'twill be a wonder
As e'er was heard;
We'll ne'er commit sae foul a blunder,
Na, dinna fear't.
The Highland-men for cutting purse,
Lifting Lawland cows and horse,
Sometimes, though seldom, take remorse,
And they're disgrac'd;
But we kirk-treas'rers that do worse,
Are not strait-lac'd.

Meg.
Master, your pensionary's gane;
Ye ken your awn lass Waterstane,
Wae's me the silly slut was ta'en,
The best o' lowns,
Because she wad na ly her lane,
But wi' dragoons.

K. Treas.
Meg, Meg, ill news, that she is lost!
I fear she will gi' up the ghost;
But wha think ye shall fill her post?
Gae through the town,
Wyle well, my jo, whate'er it cost,
There's half a crown.

Meg.
I ken a chuck of cliver sense,
The jade was bred wi' luckie Spence,
And new laid to when she went hence,
That was nae fool,
Well did she learn the art to fence,
At her sweet school.
My winsome dad, nae body's near us,
Sae wha in a' the warld can hear us,
Make acts wi' penalties to fear us,
And keep's in awe,
And upon saul and conscience swear us
To keep them a'.
Taylors and websters ne'er were leel,
Yet for the good of common weal,
To gi'e his due e'en to the de'il,
They've seal o'cause,
And deacon too, to gar them feel
The weight of laws.
At Rotterdam the hogan pow'rs,
(And that's a whiggish town like ours)
The lowns in public stews secures;
The Dutch are wise,
And put placards upon the doors
To tell their price.
The auldest trade that's in the nation,
Amaist as auld as the creation,
Shou'd be made an incorporation,
I'm no in joke,
That we may trade wi' reputation,
Like burger fowk.

K. Treas.
It may be done, Meg, say nae mair,
I'm deacon, and I'll take the chair,
For clerk we'll hae the wyle of ware,
Auld L---n;
Rob Forbes shall be officer,
As good's in town.

Meg.
Then let us think upon a way,
Or else fair trade will soon decay,
To gar the Glasgow women stay
Without our port;
They come sae thick in every day
They spoil our sport.
Hame at their awn town let them bide,
D---l nor they were a' drown'd in Clyde;
A man can purchase their backside,
For poor twa groats,
And drink of that wi' them beside,
Aught shillin' Scots.
Wi' bibles and psalm books they cant,
As ilk ane of them were a saint,
Wi' holy keckle, pegh and pant,
And greet and grain,
That ev'ry godly Bow head plant,
Gaes now to them.
Repeating lectures, sermons, graces,
Telling saul-exercise and cases,
And making sic Wast-country faces,
That I sair fear,
That we may a' resign our places,
If they thrang here.

K. Treas.
Ye're scyre-wrang, Meg; for wi' their greeting,
And notes of Mr Clark's repeating,
And mony scripture texts ay citing,
And singing psalms;
Neighbour's think 'tis a holy meeting
Of God's ain lambs.
Your tory lowns are worst to guide,
They cannot their ain secret hide;
Whane'er they lay their legs aside,
Or drink to James,
They blaze what's done baith far and wide,
And tell fowks names.
If ye wad paukily succeed,
Prove a rank hypocrite indeed,
Subscirbe to the kirk treas'rer's creed,
And ye'll win cash,
Let honesty ne'er fash your head,
'Tis tory trash.