University of Virginia Library

I warn you a' to greet and drone,
John Couper's dead, ohon! ohon!
To fill his post alake there's none,
That with sic speed,
Could sa'r sculdudry out like John,
But now he's dead.
He was right knacky in his way,
And eydent baith by night and day,
He wi' the lads his part could play,
When right sair fleed;
He gart them good bill siller pay,
But now he's dead.
Of whore hunting he got his fill,
And made by't mony a pint and gill;
Of his bra' post he thought nae ill,
Nor did na need,
Now they may make a kirk and mill
O't, since he's dead.
Although he was nae man of weir,
Yet mony ane, wi' quaking fear,
Durst scarce before his face appear,
But hide their head;
The wily carle he gather'd gear,
And yet he's dead.
Ay now to some part far awa',
Alas! he's gane and left it a',
May be to some sad whilly wha
O' fremit blood,
'Tis an ill wind that does na blaw
Somebody good.
Fy upon death! he was to blame,
To whirl aff John to his lang hame;
But tho' his arse be cald, yet fame,
Wi' rout of trumpet,
Shall tell how coupers awfu' name,
Cou'd flee a strumpet.
He kend the bawds and lowns fu' well,
And where they us'd to rant and reel,
He pawkily on them could steel,
And spoil their sport,
Aft did they wish the meikle de'il
Might tak him for't.
But ne'er a ane of them he spar'd,
Even tho' there was a drunken laird,
To draw his sword, and make a faird
In their defence;
John quietly pat them in the guard,
To learn mair sense.
There maun they lye till sober grown;
The lad neist day his faut maun own;
And to keep a' things hush and lown,
He minds the poor;
Syne after a' his ready's flown,
He damns the whore.
And she, poor jade, withoutten din,
Is sent to Leith wynd-fit to spin,
With heavy heart and cleathing thin,
And hungry wame,
And ilka month a well paid skin,
To make her tame.
But now they may scour up and down,
And safely gang their wa'ks a roun,
Spreading the clap through a' the town,
But fear or dread,
For that great kow to bawd and lown,
John Couper's dead.
Shame fa' your chandler chafts, O death!
For stapping of John Couper's breath;
The loss of him is public skaith;
I dare well say,
To quat the grip he was right laith
This mony a day.

POSTSCRIPT.

Of umquhile John to lie or ban,
Shews but ill-will, and looks right shan;
But some tell odd tales of the man,
For fifty head
Can gi'e their aith they've seen him gawn
Since he was dead.
Keek but up through the stinking stile,
On Sunday morning, a wee while,
At the kirk door, out frae an isle,
It will appear;
But take good tent ye dinna file
Your breiks for fear.
For well we wat it was his ghaist;
Wow, wad some fowk, that can do't best,
Speak till't, and hear what it confest;
'Tis a good deed,
To send a wand'ring saul to rest
Amang the dead.