Elegy on Trottin' Nanny :: :: University of Virginia Library

Elegy on Trottin' Nanny

or, a threnody, written and prentit to immortalize the memory of Agnes Bertholet, alias Trottin' Nanny, message-carrier between St. Monance and Anstruther

Tennant, William (1784-1848)

[section]

PREFACE.

ELEGY ON TROTTIN' NANNY.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

ELEGY ON TROTTIN' NANNY.

1

Hech! has poor Nanny lost her breath?
Has that auld bare-skull butcher Death,
Drawn frae his black bluid-barkit sheath
His deadly knife,
And murder'd Nanny in his wraith,
And taen her life?

2

Confound thee, Death! May scab and scaw,
And boils and blisters red and raw,
Grow on thy grinning growsam jaw,
And rot thy carcase,
Syn thou has haurl'd poor Nans awa
Down thy dark Stair-case!

3

What! had thou not enough o' wark
In stabbin' Russians stout and stark ,
That thou has slipp'd owr i' the dark
To little Fifie,
And slachter'd Nanny in her sark,
A feckless wifie!

4

Deil choke wi' soot thy menseless maw!
For this may Bony cheat thy jaw
O' Russian flesh a year or twa,
Thou King uncanny!
Syn thou has grippit i' thy paw
Poor Trottin' Nanny!

5

Waesucks! her spirit's flown on high
Up to the bonny gowden sky,
An' left her clay-cauld corp to lie
Flat on a dead-deal,
A useless present by and bye
To White the Beadle:

6

Weep, weep, ye women of St. Monance,
As if ye were a-peelin' ingans;
Nor stop the copious salt out-rinnins
Frae ilk ee-lash,
Till a' your sarks and plaids and linens
Be in a plash!

7

Weep, A---w R---r! Weep and mane,
And burst thy breast wi' grievous grane,
For she, wi' whom thou wert sae fain
To banter often,
Alas! has now her mansion taen
In a cauld coffin!

8

Nae mair her tongue, that us'd to bicker
As fast as waves wi' wind the wicker,
Shall wag and wriggle quick and quicker,
In wranglin' strife,
And prove to you wi' reasons sicker
The bluid's the life!

9

She was of nature mild and tame,
A self-possessin' gentle dame;
Till, jeerin', thou wi' wicket name
Began to bother,
And set her auld saul in a flame
Like pluff o' pouther.

10

Oh then how hetly burn'd her spirit!
Her tongue, how skelpit it unweary't!
Woe to the lugs then doom'd to hear it!
For frae it flew
Bespitterin' man and woman near it
The frothy dew!

11

But when poor Nanny's saul was risen,
And a' her bluid wi' wraith was bizzen,
Ah! weel thou kent to cool her fizzen,
For, in a drammie,
She suck'd good-nature down her gizen
As meek's a lammie!

12

Yet thou Sir, (let me say't) wert born
To be in Nannie's sides a thorn;
D'ye mind the fright you gat that morn,
Whan wi' your julip,
Her wame, like to a butter-churn
Did plout and wallop?

13

(Deil dip his sooty stinkin' phiz in
Thy whisky-casks for this transgression!)
I wat she was a bonnie case in,
Wi' thy d---d pouther,
For frae her curpin to her gizen,
She was a' throuther.

14

Then Mr. R---r! Mak a weepin'
For her wha now in death lies sleepin';
Let muckle blobs o' tears down creepin'
Mak thy face weety,
Een till thy white sark-neck be dreepin'
Wi' dew o' pity!

15

W---m M---c---l! On this occasion,
Lift up thy heavy lamentation;
Cry loudly in thy tribulation,
And belch thy moans,
Een till thy house to it's foundation
Shall shake wi' groans!

16

Weep, M---e! Let thy cheeks be sappit
Wi' tears at leisure slawly drappit:
What though thy pie-crust up she snappit,
Ance on a time?
You needna grudged her the tap o't;—
'Twas nae great crime.

17

O D---d T---d! O thou J---n R---e!
O P---p S---t sae mild and meek ay!
Let ilka forehead now be leaky
For your poor sister,
Till, wi' your blubberin', chin and cheekie
Be in a blister.

18

Ye fishers! Rouse ye up and squaik all;
O mind nae now your fishin'-tackle;
Howl in your streets like ony jackall,
'Tween Kirk an' Meetin',
Een till your sturdy weazons ake all
Wi' bitter greetin'.

19

And, when in boats ye gang sea-farin',
Then on the deeps lift loud your rairin',
And to the ling and potleys therein
Proclaim aloud,
That Nanny lies as dead's a herrin'
In her cauld shroud!

20

Ye fisherwomen, swank and stout!
That carry fish in creels about,
O put ye on your mournin'-clout,
And sab and grane,
Till rocks and braes repeat the shout
Our Nanny's gane!

21

Whare'er ye gang to sell your skate,
Tell, far and near, your sister's fate;
Proclaim it at Balcaskie gate;
And at Ardross,
And at the Bouse, wi' wailin' great,
Scream out your loss.

22

Mourn, ye salt-pans, be doubly blackit
Wi' smeek, syn Nanny's thread is snackit;
Salters! Put on your sootiest jacket,
Cry out, Ohone!
Our salt, she'll ne'er mair buy a peck o't;
She's gone! She's gone!

23

She was a bauld and fearless woman;
When ca' o' bus'ness did her summon,
Nae tempest, frae the salt sea bummin'
Wi' sleety dreel,
Had pow'r to keep her back frae comin'
Here wi' her creel.

24

In vain the East-wind blew against her!
In vain the frosts o' winter pinch'd her!
In vain the rains cam down and drench'd her
Weet to her shirt;
Nans puff'd and hurry'd on to Anster
Through wind and dirt!

25

Ay me! those feet that ance sae fast
First trottit east, then trottit wast,
Now safe frae snaw and rain and blast,
In dead-claes drest,
Find in their winding-sheet at last
A peacefu' rest.

26

Then mourn, ye folk of Anster town,
Ilk taylor, souter, wabster lown!
Join in an eerie eldrich tune
Your dismal voices,
And spread the burstin' sorrow roun'
Your streets and closses:

27

Ye carpenters! Throw now awa
Your caukin-airn, an' ax an' saw,
Set up a gowlin' ane and a'
Within your ships;
Nae mair at her the mou' ye'll thraw,
And smack the lips:

28

For aye your tongues wi' nimble crackie
Atween your lips gaed smickie-smackie;
While Nans, provokit wi' their clackie,
Spat burnin' fraeth,
And shook her auld creel on her backie,
In perfect wraith.

29

Thou Mr C---n! Too begin
To whine and wheep a waefu' din;
Frae baith thy een let waters rin
In bonnie streams,
And danglin' hing upon thy chin
Like Indian gems:

30

Aft thou her birrin' tongue has thaul'd;—
And weel thou kens she's dead and cauld
That thou to prent her book art bauld;
But, weel I trou,
For this, i' th'tither warld her skauld
Is waitin' you.

31

J---n R---r! Let thy ee-brees baith
Pour out a flood for Nanny's death;
Ye've need to weet, upo' my faith
Your twa ee-lashes,
And mourn ye (as the Scripture saith)
In dust and ashes:

32

For monie a scoff o' thine she's brookit,
And monie a glass o' whisky sookit:
D'ye mind that day how weel she cookit
The reverend mannie?—
My fegs! He was right weel rebukit
By Trottin' Nanny!

33

Weep Mrs. B---e! for her nae mair
Shall ye the dish o' tea prepare,
Settin 't aside wi' cannie care
Her piecey wi' it;
She'll ne'er come up Death's lang back-stair
To tak a prie o't!

34

O thou Ale-brewer! wail and grieve;
Preen the white weepers to your sleeve;
Smite, smite your bosom wi' your neive;
Cry out and roar Oh!
And frae your lowest stamach heave
Great bursts o' sorrow.

35

And thou J---n W---n! Devil b' on ye
If thou'lt no break a wee bit groanie
For thy auld trottin' friend and cronie;
Girn, J---n! And grane,
And nicker in thy grief O J---ie!
For her that's gane.

36

E'en I, that by my oolie-creusie
Court here the lee-lang night the Musie,
Touzlin' for rhimes the glaikit hussie,—
My ees begin
To gush their moisture saft and oozy
A-down my chin.

37

Then fare thee weel, thou Nanny lassie,
And may thy grave be green and grassy;
May flow'rs and monie a bonnie bushie
Ilk simmer dress't;
And may the cauld clod never crush ye,
Laid at thy rest.

38

For me, should e'er my steps be found
Near auld St. Monance burial-ground,
I'll seek thy grave—I'll strew around
Sweet flowrets many,
And murmur with a mournfu' sound,
Alas, poor Nanny!

END OF TROTTIN' NANNY.

This doleful Threnody was written about the time when Buonaparte entered Russia, an event to which the above Verse refers.

The Reverend Mr. G--- late of St. Monance.