The works of Allan Ramsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Cannigate! poor elritch Hole,
What Loss, what Crosses does thou thole!
London and Death gars thee look drole,
And hing thy Head;
Wow, but thou has e'en a cauld Coal
To blaw indeed.

Hear me ye Hills, and every Glen,
Ilk Craig, ilk Cleugh, and hollow Den,
And Echo shrill, that a' may ken
The waefou Thud,
Be rackless Death, wha came unsenn
To Lucky Wood.

She's dead o'er true, she's dead and gane,
Left us and Willie Burd alane,
To bleer and greet, to sob and mane,
And rugg our Hair,
Because we'll ne'r see her again
For evermair.

She gae'd as fait as a new Prin,
And kept her Housie snod and been;
Her Peuther glanc'd upo' your Een
Like Siller Plate;
She was a donsie Wife and clean,
Without Debate.

It did ane good to see her Stools,
Her Boord, Fire-side, and facing Tools;
Rax, Chandlers, Tangs, and Fire-Shools,
Basket wi' Bread.
Poor Facers now may chew Pea-hoofs,
Since Lucky's dead.

She ne'er gae in a Lawin fause,
Nor Stoups a Froath aboon the Hause,
Nor kept dow'd Tip within her Waw's,
But reaming Swats;
She never ran sour Jute, because
It gee's the Batts.

She had the Gate sae well to please,
With gratis Beef, dry Fish, or Cheese;
Which kept our Purses ay at Ease,
And Health in Tift,
And lent her fresh Nine Gallon Trees
A hearty Lift.

She ga'e us aft hail Legs o' Lamb,
And did nae hain her Mutton Ham;
Then ay at Yule, when e'er we came,
A bra' Goose Pye,
And was na that good Belly Baum?
Nane dare deny.

The Writer Lads fow well may mind her,
Furthy was she, her Luck design'd her
Their common Mither, sure nane kinder
Ever brake Bread;
She has na left her Make behind her,
But now she's dead.

To the sma' Hours we aft sat still,
Nick'd round our Toasts and Snishing Mill;
Good Cakes we wanted ne'r at Will,
The best of Bread,
Which often cost us mony a Gill
To Aikenhead.

Cou'd our saut Tears like Clyde down rin,
And had we Cheeks like Corra's Lin,
That a' the Warld might hear the Din
Rair frae ilk Head;
She was the Wale of a' her Kin,
But now she's dead.

O Lucky Wood, 'tis hard to bear
The Loss; but Oh! we maun forbear:
Yet sall thy Memory be dear
While blooms a Tree,
And after Ages Bairns will spear
'Bout Thee and Me.

EPITAPH.

Beneath this Sod
Lies Lucky Wood,
Whom a' Men might put Faith in;
Wha was na sweer,
While she winn'd here,
To cramm our Wames for naithing.

Lucky Wood kept an Ale-house in the Canongate, was much respected for Hospitality, Honesty, and the Neatness both of her Person and House.

The Place of her Residence being the greatest Sufferer, by the Loss of our Members of Parliament, which London now enjoys, many of them having their Houses there, being the Suburb of Edinburgh nearest the King's Palace; this with the Death of Lucky Wood are sufficient to make the Place ruinous.

or unsent for. There's nothing extraordinary in this, it being his common Custom, except in some few Instances of late since the falling of the Bubbles.

Her Husband William Wood.

Stoups (or Pots) and Cups, so call'd from the Facers. See l. 29.

The Facers were a Club of fair Drinkers who inclined rather to spend a Shilling on Ale than Twopence for Meat; they had their Name from a Rule they observed of obliging themselves to throw all they left in the Cup in their own Faces: Wherefore to save their Face and Cloaths, they prudently suck'd the Liquor clean out.

All this Verse is a fine Picture of an honest Ale-seller; A Rarity.

The Nether-bow Porter, to whom Lucky's Customers were often obliged for opening the Port for them, when they staid out 'till the small Hours after Midnight.

A very high Precipice nigh Lanerk, over which the River of Clyde falls making a great Noise, which is heard some Miles off.