The works of Allan Ramsay edited by Burns Martin ... and John W. Oliver [... and Alexander M. Kinghorn ... and Alexander Law] |
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The twa Cut-Purses.
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 | The works of Allan Ramsay |  |
The twa Cut-Purses.
A Tale.
In Borrows-town there was a Fair,
And mony a Landart Coof was there
Baith Lads and Lasses busked brawly,
To glowr at ilka Bonny-waly,
And lay out ony ora Bodles
On sma' Gimcracks that pleas'd their Nodles;
Sic as a Jocktaleg, or Sheers,
Confeckit Ginger, Plums or Pears.
And mony a Landart Coof was there
Baith Lads and Lasses busked brawly,
To glowr at ilka Bonny-waly,
And lay out ony ora Bodles
On sma' Gimcracks that pleas'd their Nodles;
Sic as a Jocktaleg, or Sheers,
Confeckit Ginger, Plums or Pears.
These gaping Gowks twa Rogues survey,
And on their Cash this Plot they lay;
The tane, less like a Knave than Fool,
Unbidden clam the high Cockstool,
And pat his Head and baith his Hands
Throw Holes where the Ill-Doer stands.
Now a' the Crowd with Mouth and Een
Cry'd out, What does the Idiot mean?
They glowr'd and leugh, and gather'd thick,
And never thought upon a Trick,
Till he beneath had done his Job,
By tooming Poutches of the Mob;
Wha now possest of Rowth of Gear,
Scour'd aff as lang's the Cost was clear.
And on their Cash this Plot they lay;
The tane, less like a Knave than Fool,
Unbidden clam the high Cockstool,
And pat his Head and baith his Hands
Throw Holes where the Ill-Doer stands.
Now a' the Crowd with Mouth and Een
Cry'd out, What does the Idiot mean?
They glowr'd and leugh, and gather'd thick,
And never thought upon a Trick,
Till he beneath had done his Job,
By tooming Poutches of the Mob;
Wha now possest of Rowth of Gear,
Scour'd aff as lang's the Cost was clear.
56
But wow? the Ferly quickly chang'd,
When throw their empty Fobs they rang'd;
Some girn'd, and some look'd blae wi' Grief,
While some cry'd out, Fy had the Thief.
But ne'er a Thief or Thief was there,
Or cou'd be found in a' the Fair.
The Jip wha stood aboon them a',
His Innocence began to shaw;
Said he, my Friends, I'm very sorry
To hear your melancholy Story;
But sure whate'er your Tinsel be,
Ye canna lay the Wyte on me.
When throw their empty Fobs they rang'd;
Some girn'd, and some look'd blae wi' Grief,
While some cry'd out, Fy had the Thief.
But ne'er a Thief or Thief was there,
Or cou'd be found in a' the Fair.
The Jip wha stood aboon them a',
His Innocence began to shaw;
Said he, my Friends, I'm very sorry
To hear your melancholy Story;
But sure whate'er your Tinsel be,
Ye canna lay the Wyte on me.
| The works of Allan Ramsay | |