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

BARD.
Now soon as e'er the Will was torn,
Jouk, with twa Bonnets on the Morn,
Frae Fairyland fast bang'd away,
The Prize at Rosie's Feet to lay;
Wha sleely when he did appear,
About his Success 'gan to speer.

JOUKUM.
Here, bonny Lass, your humble Slave
Presents you with the Things ye crave,
The riven Will and Bonnets twa,
Which makes the Third worth nought ava.
Our Power gi'en up, now I demand
Your promis'd Love, and eke your Hand.

BARD.
Rose smil'd to see the Lad outwitted,
And Bonnets to the Flames committed.
Immediately an awfu' Sound,
As ane wad thought, raise frae the Ground;
And syne appear'd a stalwart Ghaist,
Whase stern and angry Looks amaist
Unhool'd their Sauls,—shaking, they saw
Him frae the Fire the Bonnets draw:
Then came to Jouk, and, with twa Drugs,
Encreas'd the Length of baith his Lugs;
And said,

GHAIST.
Be a' thy days an Ass,
And Hackney to this cunning Lass:
But for these Bonnets, I'll preserve them,
For Bairns unborn, that will deserve them.

BARD.
With that he vanished'd frae their Een,
And left poor Jouk wi' Breeks not clean,
He shakes while Rosie rants and capours,
And ca's the Vision nought but Vapours;
Rubs o'er his Cheeks and Gab wi' Reem,
Till he believes't to be a Dream:
Syne to her Closet leads the Way,
To soup him up with Usquabae.

ROSIE.
Now, bonny Lad, ye may be free
To handle ought pertains to me;
And e'er the Sun, tho' he be dry,
Has driven down the Westlin Sky,

To drink his Wamefu' of the Sea,
There's be but ane of you and me.
In Marriage ye shall hae my Hand;
But I maun hae the sole Command
In Fairyland to saw and plant,
And to send there for ought I want.

BARD.
Ay, ay, crys Jouk, all in a Fire,
And stiff'ning into strong Desire.

JOUKUM.
Come hast thee, let us sign and seal;
And let my Billies gae to the D---.

BARD.

Here it wad make o'er lang a Tale,
To tell how meikle Cakes and Ale,
And Beef, and Brose, and Gryce and Geese,
And Pyes a running o'er wi' Creesh,
Was serv'd upon the Wedding-table,
To make the Lads and Lasses able
To do, ye ken what we think Shame
(Tho' ilk ane does't) to gie't a Name.

But true it is, they soon were buckled,
And soon she made poor Jouk a Cuckold,
And play'd her bawdy Sports before him,
With Chiels that car'd na Tippence for him;
Beside a Rosicrucian Trick
She had of Dealing with Auld-Nick;

And when ere Jouk began to grumble,
Auld Nick in the niest Room wad rumble.
She drank, and fought, and spent her Gear
With Dice, and selling o' the Mear.
Thus living like a Belzi's Get,
She ran her sell sae deep in Debt
By borrowing Money at a' Hands,
That yearly Income of her Lands
Scarce paid the Interest of her Bands.
Jouk, ay ca'd wise behind the Hand,
The Daffine of his Doings fand:
O'er late he now began to see
The Ruin of his Family:
But, past Relief, lar'd in a Midding,
He's now oblig'd to do her Bidding.
Away, with strict Command, he's sent
To Fairyland to lift the Rent,
And with him mony a Catterpillar
To rug frae Birss and Bawsy Siller;
For her braid Table maun be serv'd,
Tho' Fairy-fowk shou'd a' be starv'd.
Jouk thus surrounded with his Guards,
Now plunders Hay-stacks, Barns and Yards,
They drive the Nowt frae Bristle's Fald,
While he can nought but ban and scald.

BRISTLE.
Vile Slave to a Hissy, ill begotten,
By many Dads, with Claps half rotten.
Were't no for Honour of my Mither,
I shou'd na think ye were my Brither.

JOUKUM.
Dear Brither, why this rude Reflection?
Learn to be gratefu' for Protection;

The Peterenians, Bloody Beasts,
That gar Fowk lik the Dowps of Priests
Else on a Brander, like a Haddock,
Be broolied, sprowling, like a Padock.
These Monsters, lang or now had come
With Faggots, Taz, and Tuck o' Drum,
And twin'd you of your Wealth and Lives
Syne, without speering, m--- your Wives,
Had not the Rosicrucians stood
The Bulwarks of your Rights and Blood;
And yet, forsooth, ye girn and grumble,
And, with a Gab unthankfu', mumble
Out mony a black unworthy Curse,
When Rosie bids ye draw your Purse;
When she's sae generously content
With not aboon Thirty per Cent.

BRISTLE.
Damn you and her! tho' now I'm blae
I'm hopefu' yet to see the Day,
I'll gar ye baith repent that e'er
Ye reav'd by Force, away, my Gear
Without, or Thanks, or making Price,
Or ever speering my Advice

JOUKUM.
Peace Gowk, we naithing do at a',
But by the Letter of the Law:
Then nae mair with your Din torment us,
Gowling like ane non compos mentis,
Else Rosie issue may a Writ,
To ty ye up baith Hand and Fit,
And dungeon ye, but Meat or Drink,
Till ye be starv'd, and die in Stink.

BARD.

Thus Jouk and Bristle when they met,
With sick braw Language ither tret.
Just Fury glows in Bristle's Veins;
And tho' his Bonnet he retains,
Yet on his Crest he may not cock it,
But in a Coffer closs maun lock it.
Bareheaded thus, he e'en knocks under,
And lets them drive away the Plunder.
Sae have I seen, beside a Tower,
The King of Brutes obliged to cour;
And, on his Royal Paunches, thole
A Dwerf to prog him with a Pole;
While he wad shaw his Fangs and rage
With bootless Brangling in his Cage.

Now follows that we take a Peep
Of Bawsy looking like a Sheep,
By Bristle hated and despis'd,
By Jouk and Rose as little priz'd.

Soon as the Horse had heard his Brither
Joukum and Rose were prick'd thegither,
Away he scours o'er Hight and How,
Fow fidgen fain what e'er he dow,
Counting what Things he now did mister,
That wad be gi'en him by his Sister.
Like shallow Bards wha think they flee,
Because they live Sax Stories high,
To some poor lifeless Lucubration
Prefixes fleeching Dedication,
And blythly dream they'll be restor'd
To Ale-house-Credit by my Lord.
Thus Bawsy's Mind in Plenty row'd,
While he thought on his promis'd Gowd
And Baillyship, which he with Fines
Wad make like the West-India's Mines;
Arrives, with future Greatness dizy,
Ca's, where's Mest Jouk?—

BEEF.
—Mest Jouk is bisy.

BAWSY.
My Lady Rose is she at Leasure?

BEEF.
No, Sir, my Lady's at her Pleasure.

BAWSY.
I wait for Her or Him, go shew;

BEEF.
And pray ye, Master, wha are you?

BAWSY.
Upo' my Saul this Porter's sawsy;
Sirra, go tell my Name is Bawsy,
Their Brither wha made up the Marriage.

BEEF.
And sae I thought by your daft Carriage.
Between your Houghs gae clap your Gelding,
Swith hame and feast upon a Spelding,
For there's nae Room beneath this Roof
To entertain a simple Coof,
The like of you that nane can trust,
Wha to your ain have been unjust.

BARD.

This said, he dadded too the Yet,
And left poor Bawsy in a Fret,
Wha loudly gowld and made a Din,
That was o'er-heard by a' within.
Quoth Rose to Jouk, Come let's away,
And see wha's yon makes a this Fray.
Away they went, and saw the Creature
Sair runkling ilka silly Feature
Of his dull Phiz, with Girns and Glooms,
Stamping and biting at his Thumbs.
They tented him a little while,
Then came full on him with a Smile,
Which soon gart him forget the Torture
Was rais'd within him by the Porter.
Sae will a sucking Weanie yell,
But shake a Rattle or a Bell,
It hads its Tongue—Let that alane,
It to its Yamering faws again:
Lilt up a Sang, and streight its seen
To laugh with Tears into its Een.
Thus eithly anger'd, eithly pleas'd,
Weak Bawsy lang they tantaliz'd,
With Promises right wide extended,
They ne'er perform'd nor e'er intended:
But now and then when they did need him,
A Supper and a Pint they gied him;
That done, they have nae mair to say,
And scarcely ken him the neist Day.
Poor Follow now this mony a Year,
With some faint Hope, and Routh of Fear,
He has been wrestling with his Fate,
A Drudge to Joukum and his Mate;
While Bristle saves his manly Look,
Regardless baith of Rose and Jouk,
Mantains right quietly yond the Kairns
His Honour, Conscience, Wife and Bairns.

Jouk and his Rumblegare Wife
Drive on a drunken, gaming Life,
'Cause Sober they can get nae Rest
For Nick and Duniwhistle's Ghaist,
Wha in the Garrets aften tooly,
And shore them with a bloody Guly.

Thus have I sung in hamelt Rhime,
A Sang that scorns the Teeth of Time;
Yet modestly I hide my Name,
Admiring Virtue mair than Fame.
But tent ye wha despise Instruction,
And gives my Wark a wrang Construction,
Frae hind my Courtain, mind I tell ye,
I'll shoot a Satyre thro' your Belly:
But wha with Havins jees his Bonnet,
And says, Thanks t'ye for your Sonnet,
He shanna want the Praises due
To Generosity. Adieu.