Lucky Spence's
last Advice.
Three
Times the Carline grain'd and rifted,
Then frae the Cod her Pow she lifted,
In bawdy Policy well gifted,
When she now faun,
That Death na langer wad be shifted,
She thus began:
My loving Lasses, I maun leave ye,
But dinna wi' ye'r Greeting grieve me,
Nor wi' your Draunts and Droning deave me,
But bring's a Gill;
For Faith, my Bairns, ye may believe me,
'Tis 'gainst my Will.
O black Ey'd Bess and mim Mou'd
Meg,
O'er good to work or yet to beg;
Lay Sunkots up for a sair Leg,
For whan ye fail,
Ye'r Face will not be worth a Feg,
Nor yet ye'r Tail.
Whan e'er ye meet a Fool that's fow,
That ye're a Maiden gar him trow,
Seem nice, but stick to him like Glew;
And whan set down,
Drive at the Jango till he spew,
Syne he'll sleep soun.
Whan he's asleep, then dive and catch
His ready Cash, his Rings or Watch;
And gin he likes to light his Match
At your Spunk-box,
Ne'er stand to let the fumbling Wretch
E'en take the Pox.
Cleek a' ye can be Hook or Crook,
Ryp ilky Poutch frae Nook to Nook;
Be sure to truff his Pocket-book,
Saxty Pounds Scots
Is nae deaf Nits:
In little Bouk
Lie great Bank-Notes.
To get a Mends
of whinging Fools,
That's frighted for Repenting-Stools.
Wha often, whan their Metal cools,
Turn sweer to pay,
Gar the Kirk-Boxie hale the Dools
Anither Day.
But dawt Red Coats, and let them scoup,
Free for the Fou of cutty Stoup;
To gee them up, ye need na hope
E'er to do well:
They'll rive ye'r Brats and kick your Doup,
And play the Deel.
There's ae sair Cross attends the Craft,
That curst Correction-house, where aft
Vild Hangy's Taz
ye'r Riggings saft
Makes black and blae,
Enough to pit a Body daft;
But what'll ye say.
Nane gathers Gear withouten Care,
Ilk Pleasure has of Pain a Skare;
Suppose then they should tirl ye bare,
And gar ye fike,
E'en learn to thole; 'tis very fair
Ye're Nibour like.
Forby, my Looves, count upo' Losses,
Ye'r Milk-white Teeth and Cheeks like Roses,
Whan Jet-black Hair and Brigs of Noses,
Faw down wi' Dads
To keep your Hearts up 'neath sic Crosses,
Set up for Bawds.
Wi' well crish'd Loofs I hae been canty,
Whan e'er the Lads wad fain ha'e faun t'ye;
To try the auld Game Taunty Raunty,
Like Coofers keen,
They took Advice of me your Aunty,
If ye were clean.
Then up I took my Siller Ca'
And whistl'd benn
whiles ane, whiles twa;
Roun'd in his Lug,
That there was a
Poor Country Kate,
As halesom as the Well of Spaw,
But unka blate.
Sae whan e'er Company came in,
And were upo' a merry Pin,
I slade away wi' little Din,
And muckle Mense,
Left Conscience Judge,
it was a' ane
To Lucky Spence.
My Bennison come on good Doers,
Who spend their Cash on Bawds and Whores;
May they ne'er want the Wale of Cures
For a sair Snout:
Foul fa' the Quacks wha that Fire smoors,
And puts nae out.
My Malison light ilka Day
On them that drink, and dinna pay,
But tak a Snack and rin away;
May't be their Hap
Never to want a Gonorrhæa,
Or rotten Clap.
Lass gi'e us in anither Gill,
A Mutchken, Jo, let's tak our Fill;
Let Death syne registrate his Bill
Whan I want Sense,
I'll slip away with better Will,
Quo' Lucky Spence.
