University of Virginia Library

Elegy on ROBERT FORBES.

Greet a' ye bairns and bairded fo'k,
Sic news wad pierce a heart of rock,
Death's gi'en a kick to Robin's dock,
Shame fa' his greed:
He thought that death was ay in joke;
But now he's dead.
Ay sin' he left the cobling trade,
Mending the shoon that others made,
He's been a rare reforming blade,
Cobling the church;
But now he's got the shool and spade,
Left in the lurch.
Limmers and lairds he'll nae mair chase;
Nae mair we'll see his pauky face
Keek thro' close-heads, to catch a brace
Of waping morts,
Play bogle-bo, a bonny chase,
About the ports.
In turnpike fits he darn'd himsell,
At jowing of the ten-hour-bell,
Till he on some free-traders fell,
Bra' whoring blades;
Fleg'd them and girn'd, look'd sour and fell,
Like knave of spades,
Of traders he kept ay a list,
That nightly to his mill brought grist,
Soon he abstracted multures mist,
That wrang'd his trade:
Wi' which he fill'd his awn meal kist,
But now he's dead.
Aft has he lain on castle brae
In moon-light, till his cheeks turn'd blae,
To ken where whores and bawds did gae,
Haf drunk, haf daft;
He needed nae auld wives to spae,
He kend his craft.
He threw his cloak about his gab,
Fidging as gin he had the scab;
And bravely follow'd a fat dab,
Wi' little din;
And when the bed began to bab,
Syne Rob came in.
Said, graceless bairns, and are ye yoked,
Think na the kirk will thus be mocked;
Tell me, young laird, what's in your pocket,
Red headed lads,
Yonkers like you should be well stocked,
Meddles wi' bawds.
Wi' brieks amang his feet, young laird
Cry'd, Robin, dinna bring the guard,
Ha'e, there's ten crowns, all can be spar'd
Upon my saul,
In faith, I think 'tis e'en ill war'd,
And 'tis my all.
Rob harked in the young laird's lug,
Gae to my house, we'll drink a mug,
May be I'll let you take a rug
Of caller quean.
Yon slut smells like a doctor's drug,
But mine's fou clean.
Big as the great Mogul, when din'd,
He walk'd, and John Dalgliesh behind,
To his seraglio in Leith-wynd,
To take review;
The lass that was maist blyth and kind,
John kiss'd her mou.
Sculdudry-fowk may now sing dool,
And steep their graith in a cald pool;
Wha now will save them frae the stool
In time of need?
Rob Forbes was a ready tool,
But now he's dead.
Though mony ill-far'd names we ca'd him,
His maik was ne'er sin' days of Adam,
Gie him the lure, whate'er ye bade him,
He would obey;
Ye might ha' lien with mare or madam,
Baith night and day.
Wha now will our by-blows provide,
And frae our wives adulteries hide?
Rob Forbes was a skilful guide,
Ca'd them his petts;
Now we will hae a thrang fire side,
Wi' ill got gets.
Sae soon as Robin's loof was greas'd,
What creature wad na been well pleas'd,
To see how he the brats baptiz'd,
Like ony priest!
Syne he upon the caddel seiz'd,
A bonny feast.
Proud was the carle, when he went thro'
The landward towns, as grave's a Jew,
To see the gaitlings binge and bow,
And cry, Pappa,
Wow! but he made a devilish mou,
And sain'd them a'.
Frae a' kirk-fowk he bure the gree,
Half mid-wife, nurse, and priest, a' three,
He neither curs'd nor bann'd, not he,
But was sae civil,
The live lang day wad cheat and lie,
Like ony devil.
Auld wives wi' rocks came to the doors,
And yonkers peep'd through holes and bores,
To see the captain of the whores,
Auld Frig-a-bight,
Coming to pay his quarter scores,
A seemly sight!
Although he play'd the pimp a' week,
On Sundays he look'd mild and meek;
For scarcely wad ye hear him speak
Aboon his breath:
Upon his hand he laid his cheek,
Like ane near death.
On the cap-ambrie cuist his eye,
That he might fornicators spy,
And muttering to himself, said fy,
O dool and care!
Might not the man have come to me,
And no stood there?
But yet before the text was read,
Good Robin frae the kirk was fled,
His prayers to say at barrel-head,
Drinking alane:
Red as a turkey-cock the blade
Came back again.
We loo'd to see his Judas-face,
Repeating preachings, saying grace,
Unto the tune of Chevy-chase,
Shaking his head;
Wha will we get to fill his place?
For now he's dead.