 | Merchant |  |
1. PART I.
3
ENTERTAINMENTS FOR THE CURIOUS, &c.
On the Grave-stone of Marjory Scot of Dunkeld.
Stop Passenger, until my Life you Read,The Living may get Knowledge from the Dead,
Five Times five Years I liv'd a Virgin Life;
Five Times five Years I was a virtuous Wife;
Ten Times five Years a Widow grave and chaste;
Tir'd of the Elements, I'm now at Rest,
Betwixt my Cradle, and my Grave were seen,
Eight mighty Kings of Scotland, and a Queen;
Three Common-wealths, successively I saw;
Ten Times the Subjects rise against the Law;
And, which is worse than any Civil War,
A KING arraign'd before the Subjects Bar;
Swarms of Sectarians, hot with hellish Rage,
Cut off his Royal HEAD on open Stage.
4
And twice the Cloak, did sink beneath the Gown.—
I saw the STEWART-Race, thurst out, nay more,
I saw our Country Sold for English Ore;
Our hum'rous Nobles, who have famous been,
Sunk to the lowly Number of Sixteen.—
Such Desolations in my Days have been,
I have, An end of all Perfection seen.
FLOWERS from PARNASSUS. Ex Musæo nostro, primo Junii, 1727.
A Panegyrick on the Noble Company of Bow-men, upon their solemn Parade and Exercise, 11 May, 1726.
Et vos, O Lauri, carpam, & te proxima Myrte,
Sic positæ, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.
Virg.
Sic positæ, quoniam suaves miscetis odores.
Virg.
When we the awful Voice of Thunder hear,
'Tis Jove's keen Arrows whistling thro' the Air,
Whose Bolts, with rapid Force, strike Cedars dead,
Or spend their Fury on fome destin'd Head.
For Gods ne'er shoot at Rovers in the Dark,
When they design to kill, they never miss the Mark.
Ev'n little Cupid, when his Arrow flies,
Deep Wounds the Heart, tho' blind of both the Eyes.
The Archers Art was taught us from above,
The Warriour learn'd it from the God of Love.
On yon transparent Rainbow cast your Eyes,
Chequer'd with all the Tartans of the Skies,
Lo Heav'n hangs out the Bowmans Coat of Arms,
'Twas quarter'd by a God, and mantal'd o'er with Charms.
'Tis Jove's keen Arrows whistling thro' the Air,
Whose Bolts, with rapid Force, strike Cedars dead,
Or spend their Fury on fome destin'd Head.
For Gods ne'er shoot at Rovers in the Dark,
When they design to kill, they never miss the Mark.
5
Deep Wounds the Heart, tho' blind of both the Eyes.
The Archers Art was taught us from above,
The Warriour learn'd it from the God of Love.
On yon transparent Rainbow cast your Eyes,
Chequer'd with all the Tartans of the Skies,
Lo Heav'n hangs out the Bowmans Coat of Arms,
'Twas quarter'd by a God, and mantal'd o'er with Charms.
Hail! Albions Sons, Professors of the Bow,
Your Fame shall faster than your Arrows go,
This Day celestial Pow'rs divide the Clouds,
To look with Pleasure on our Demi-gods.
Whilst Stars, these lucid Light-boys of the Night,
Peep thro' the radiant Sun's superior Light,
To view our Warriours ready for the Fight,
Dread these stong Arms will force their Arrows fly,
Until they climb the Clouds, and pierce the painted Sky.
No brainless Bard should sing in artless Notes,
Their Fame is fitter for the Angels Throats.
Your Fame shall faster than your Arrows go,
This Day celestial Pow'rs divide the Clouds,
To look with Pleasure on our Demi-gods.
Whilst Stars, these lucid Light-boys of the Night,
Peep thro' the radiant Sun's superior Light,
To view our Warriours ready for the Fight,
Dread these stong Arms will force their Arrows fly,
Until they climb the Clouds, and pierce the painted Sky.
No brainless Bard should sing in artless Notes,
Their Fame is fitter for the Angels Throats.
Wallace awake, start from your Iron Sleep,
Nor let the Barrs of Death our Conqueror keep,
These Heroes lead, in warlike Plaid's array'd,
Resent a Nations Wrongs so long betray'd:
And when you've led them thro' the purple Flood,
And bath'd your Arrows in the Traitors Blood,
Return again to Heav'n, where Glory reigns,
Make glad the hymning Hall that Britons free from Chains.
May ev'ry Rogue, who wounds Britannia, fall
Before the Archers, like to sinful Saul.
Nor let the Barrs of Death our Conqueror keep,
These Heroes lead, in warlike Plaid's array'd,
Resent a Nations Wrongs so long betray'd:
And when you've led them thro' the purple Flood,
And bath'd your Arrows in the Traitors Blood,
Return again to Heav'n, where Glory reigns,
Make glad the hymning Hall that Britons free from Chains.
May ev'ry Rogue, who wounds Britannia, fall
Before the Archers, like to sinful Saul.
6
The Character of a Vintner.
Ye Sons of Sodom, perverse hellish Race,
Behold the ugly Features of your Face,
And set this Picture up in every Room,
To see your Sin, and your eternal Doom.
It puzzles some, but never puzzl'd me,
What was the Fruit on the Forbidden Tree:
Divines have laid it out in different Shapes,
But I maintain it was a Bunch of Grapes,
With which the Devil fuddled the first Madam,
And drunken Dame she did the same to Adam;
So Drinking was the Crime procur'd the Fall,
Runs in a Blood, for drinking damns us all.
Behold the ugly Features of your Face,
And set this Picture up in every Room,
To see your Sin, and your eternal Doom.
It puzzles some, but never puzzl'd me,
What was the Fruit on the Forbidden Tree:
Divines have laid it out in different Shapes,
But I maintain it was a Bunch of Grapes,
With which the Devil fuddled the first Madam,
And drunken Dame she did the same to Adam;
So Drinking was the Crime procur'd the Fall,
Runs in a Blood, for drinking damns us all.
The Patriarch Noah grew a Vintner too,
Drunk Claret Wine till he began to spew,
So Water drown'd th'old World, and Claret drown'd the New.
What makes the Alcorn's Doctrine so prevail,
An undigested and a clumsy Tale?
Why, it prohibits Vintners and the Wine,
So Piety in ev'ry Turk doth shine,
Tho' the Alcorn's gross, and never had Pretence,
For to beguile a Man of common Sense.
What makes the true Religion we embrace,
Splinter'd in Factions, to our deep Disgrace?
What tarnishes that Creed, was once our Glory?
What made Distinctions 'twixt the Whig and Tory?
Why, they were hatch'd by drinking at the Inn.
A Vintner's Antichrist, the very Man of Sin,
From whence comes Murders, Oaths, and Disolation,
And all the Plagues e'er sunk a sinful Nation?
What makes the Rake, the Gamster, and the Whore?
What makes our ancient Families so poor?
What peoples Hell, and makes an Heaven thin?
'Tis Midnight Drinking, that's the damned Sin.
Ere Drinking had our Constitution broke,
And Men, like Goats, did simple on the Rock,
Men did outlive the Eagle and the Oak,
No Druggist's Mortar toll'd the fun'ral Bell,
No Macer's Lungs did bawl the Rolls of Hell,
Nor did the Butchers mangle down the Beast,
Nor yet deluded by designing Priest,
But when the Vintner did hang out his Sign,
The World grew sunk in Vice and Claret Wine.
Drunk Claret Wine till he began to spew,
So Water drown'd th'old World, and Claret drown'd the New.
What makes the Alcorn's Doctrine so prevail,
An undigested and a clumsy Tale?
Why, it prohibits Vintners and the Wine,
So Piety in ev'ry Turk doth shine,
Tho' the Alcorn's gross, and never had Pretence,
For to beguile a Man of common Sense.
What makes the true Religion we embrace,
Splinter'd in Factions, to our deep Disgrace?
What tarnishes that Creed, was once our Glory?
7
Why, they were hatch'd by drinking at the Inn.
A Vintner's Antichrist, the very Man of Sin,
From whence comes Murders, Oaths, and Disolation,
And all the Plagues e'er sunk a sinful Nation?
What makes the Rake, the Gamster, and the Whore?
What makes our ancient Families so poor?
What peoples Hell, and makes an Heaven thin?
'Tis Midnight Drinking, that's the damned Sin.
Ere Drinking had our Constitution broke,
And Men, like Goats, did simple on the Rock,
Men did outlive the Eagle and the Oak,
No Druggist's Mortar toll'd the fun'ral Bell,
No Macer's Lungs did bawl the Rolls of Hell,
Nor did the Butchers mangle down the Beast,
Nor yet deluded by designing Priest,
But when the Vintner did hang out his Sign,
The World grew sunk in Vice and Claret Wine.
A Warning to the Wicked, or, Margaret Dickson's Welcome to the Gibbet.
INVOCATION.
Ye Sons of Satan, Candidates of Hell,Listen unto the serious Truths I tell,
Lord dictate thou, and sanctify my Speech,
That I to them may keen Conviction teach,
8
All our Well-springs, and Blessings are in Thee.
The NARRATIVE.
I with this hellish Wretch's Life beginA black Account, yet bright Display of Sin,
O Sinners mourn and melt to know her Case
And in the Glass behold your ugly Face,
Such are we all before a Work of Grace,
Ignorance was the first and fatal Crime,
(Strange this should happen in a Gospel Clime)
By Ignorance want of Learning is not meant,
Knowledge of God is easily obtain'd,
A Bible is the fundamental Rule,
Not studying, the learned Man's a Fool,
Ignorance excludes from the Courts above,
The God we do not know we cannot love.
Knowledge breeds Love, Love teaches to obey,
Obedience keeps us in the heavenly Way,
This Ignorance, the Source of all our Evil,
Sae her a faithful Factor to the Devil,
For when the Heart's not bolted against Sin,
It lets the Devil and Damnation in.
Her Heart grew sear'd, loath'd every Thing was good,
And she indulg'd the De'il of Flesh and Blood,
The Flame of Lust no Opposition meets,
Commits Adultery, and the Crime repeats,
Then Satan drives the Nail in to the Head,
Pushes her on to slay her new born Seed;
9
Till she's a Master-piece, and consummate in Sin,
Now she whom Wrath of God could never aw,
Doth sink and tremble at the Stroaks of Law,
But cunning Satan shifts the Tables now,
Makes her believe a false Repentance true,
She mourns and weeps, and prays with many a Groan.
But still the Heart's untouch'd, and harder than the Stone.
Hypocrisy's a Plaister on the Skin,
But deep and hidly the Canals of Sin.
Good Men believ'd the Wretch had got Remorse,
Satan lurk'd low to rise with greater Force,
The Arm lies back the greater blow to fetch,
So did the Devil with the impious Wretch;
Tho' she surviv'd the executing Cord,
She can't survive the Justice of our Lord;
The Terrors of a Gibbet, soon abate,
Her seeming Sanctity and holy Hate,
The more she Mercy gets, she Sins the more,
Is ten Times greater Devil than before.
So Trees may bud, but never carry Fruit,
When not one Drop of Moisture's at the Root.
Satan returns, with moe, to act their Part,
And warm within that ugly Hole, her Heart;
Gets drunk and steals, and plays the De'il each Day,
With her whole Heart, she throws her Soul away,
The Miscreant kills the Fruit of her own Womb,
To make Damnation her eternal Doom.
10
ADMONITION.
Seeds of all Sins are in our Nature sown,And conquer'd by the Grace of God alone:
On him depend, walk in his holy Ways,
And then a pleasant Death will end your Days.
The merry Wives of Musleburgh, at their meeting together, to Welcome MEG DICKSON after her Loup from the Ladder.
O qualis hurlie burlie fuit,
Si forte vidisses.
Polem. Mid.
Si forte vidisses.
Polem. Mid.
1
That Day when Meg sair Tasle got,Wi' Hangie's Beeds about her Throat:
Three clav'ring Carlings o'er their Pot:
a spewing fou,
Whing'd when they thought on Maggie's Trot
down the West Bow.
2
The aldest Cummer of the Three,(Born whan the English took Dundee)
Cry'd, shame light on that Lown-like Tree
plays sic foul Tricks.
De'll nor it were hewn down for me,
to Puddin Pricks.
3
What's come of a our Witches now,11
Wha like a String of wild Geese flew
last Halla-Even,
And made my Skin baith blae and blue,
fell'd Tittie Jean.
4
They say, ald Nick Commands the Air,Whan drunken Maggie's hanging there;
Not for to help her, were unfair,
Pox take sick D---ls,
To let Dalgleish, O Dole and Care,
pou down her Heels.
5
Had a the Wives that carries Creels,Gutsters, and we wha spin on Wheels,
At brake of Day made souple Heels,
ta'ne her awa
Fra the Cheese Loft near to St. Giles,
we'd mock't the Law.
6
But now 'tis e'en o'er late, I think,Besides, I've got nine Draps of Drink:
I'm fitter for to take a Wink
of Sleep, I trow,
And Bessie, ye ha' got a Blink:
confess ye're fow.
7
Thrice Bessie farted, ga a Rift,Rubbing her Head was out of Tift;
And syne her Words fell down like Drift,
blatter'd like Hail,
12
and scratch'd her Tail.
8
Ken ye the Schetlan Cockle Shell,I mind I brought it hame my sell,
Gi'en be the auld Goodman in Hell,
he's kind to me.
Fra a' the Boats it bears the Bell,
e'er crost the Sea.
9
At our new Key I'll shipping take,And if I bring blyth Maggie back,
I think a' Musleburgh may crack,
and Fisherra,
Grissie, ride ye upon my Back,
and we'll awa.
10
Jean Jap, who lives in Pittenweem,I saw her last Night in a Dream,
Upon a Hoast will to us sweem
like Cu'ross Cat,
She from a Rape draws Milk and Cream
will fill a Pat.
11
We'll dance upon the Ladder Top,Whan Hangie puts Meg in the Rope;
To his Design we'll put a Stop,
and Glamer cast,
That she's cald dead, the Carle will hope,
and breath'd her last.
13
12
And when Dalgleish cuts Maggie down,My Boat shall bear her thro' the Town,
To the Wind-mill, and there will soon,
start up a Cart,
{My Boat} will neither break nor drown,
I ha sick Art.
13
Carlin ca' a' your Cummers in,And be upon a merry Pin;
At Night we shall ha' a fow Skin,
and Merry grow,
Whan I bring Maggie to her Kin,
fra Hangie's Tow.
14
Syn baith evanish in the Air,And Luckie sa their Face na mair;
But heard their Arse ga sick a Rair,
blew thro' the Links,
The Blast turn'd a' the Peuther Ware
down frae the Binks.
15
At Night when Suters leave their Lingles,And Bairns come laden hame with Singles,
And ald Wives kindle up their Ingles
to last till Ten,
Luckie heard a' the Doors gi' Gingles,
sae they came ben.
16
Saying, Swith to the Door and meet:Meg Dickson in her Winding-sheet:
Na Wonder, that she has sair Feet,
and gangs na fast,
14
but now 'tis past.
17
Luckie out o'er the Threshel goes,There ties her Shoen, draws up her Hose,
Pat Spectacles upon her Nose,
but e'er she wist,
Couped, because she'd got a Dose,
o'er Maggie's Kist.
18
O dole, she cries, I ha' na Pith,I've dung my Thigh Bain out of Lith,
The mickle D---l take her with
his cloven Feet,
For forty Days, I'll gi' my Aith,
I winna Eat.
19
But whan she saw the Milk-white Gaist,She gather'd up her Heels wi' haste,
Fell in a Gutter to the Waist,
there lay again,
Quoth she, was ever an sae Taist?
I scarce dow grain.
20
Maggie said, and she spake na Joke,Cummer, I think my Heart's half broke;
This Day I have been wi' fashious Folk,
as e'er I saw,
They brought me in an unka Lock,
wa worth them a'.
21
They sang Kirk Tunes and gart me dance,15
Untill I fell into a Trance,
cald be their cast,
I cannot tell you how to Scance
on a' that's past.
22
I trow, to be with them's nae Mows,I took them a' for Worry-cows;
Sair did my Heart fa' in the Hows,
lap af the Stak,
I did not loe their powder'd Pows,
Plague on the Pack.
23
They bade me ay make clean Confession,And tald me of my great Transgression;
It was an unka Kind o' Session,
sib to ald Nick,
I never met wi' sick Oppression
sin I was quick.
24
Before I were with them, I swear,I'd rather drink Dub-water here;
They've got a lang toom wooden Mear
to dance upon,
And wha's their Chaplin, will ye hear,
our awn Mes John,
25
I love Mes John, L---d len him Heal,Altho' I hae no mickle Skill,
I think he Preaches unca well
well may he be,
But frae yon Hearers and the D---l,
the L---d keep me,
16
26
To clim yon Stair is na sma Task,As high's the Kirk of Innerask,
And o'er my Face they drew a Mask
I cou'd na see,
And then the Beddle came to ask,
ye'll pardon me.
27
Whan near the Tap of a' the Tree,As if they he'd cry'd Come a' to me,
Donsily Cheek for Chow sat We
as we had been great,
Wha than could thought we wad na gree?
But bide ye yet.
28
Shame fa the Carle's Chafts that spake it,I'm sure yon Fok's gan a' distracket,
He gave me such a devilish Racket,
that o'er flew I,
I spake na mair than our Salt-backit
and dought na cry.
29
He flighter'd every Arm and Leg,And made a Nofe o' Wax of Meg,
O! but I got a desp'rate Fleg,
pat me half daft,
I vow I had rather gang and beg,
than feel his Craft.
30
At first I wonder'd what he mean'dNa Pity shaw'd when I complain'd;
But then he girnt like a Hell-Feind,
and o'er me threw,
17
at Shuggie shew.
31
But I wan aff be Mights of Marie,I thought it dang'rous for to tarrie
It's war nor playing at Blin Harrie,
and Time to flee,
E'n let them make a Firie Farie,
they'll no catch me.
32
Then Bessie mumled with her Lips,And crawl'd, and cry'd, and claw'd her Hips,
For no Gear wa'd I born your Snips,
it was unluckie,
But sen you're gotten out o's Grips,
gi'e John a Bukkie.
33
Dra in the Cripie and sit down,There's reaming Swats come to the Town,
Aha, and there comes Eppie Brown;
bang the Bicker,
Ye winna hang, I fear ye drown
among good Licker.
34
Eppie first sain'd her self, and syne,Cry'd, Dare I trust my awn twa Eyen,
Wow honest Meg whar ha'e ye been
amang the Gleds.
The Wives are coming here be deen,
and Bairns fra Beds.
35
Come take a drink, and tell the Way,Ye was ill guided some Folk say,
They set you ay to greet and pray
The Folk in Black,
18
a lang dry Crack.
36
Quoth Meg, when in that cursed Spot,Where never Saul can win a Groat,
Nane of them came to weet my Throat;
na Pint nor Gill,
I could not make a better o't
I pray'd my fill.
37
The Red Coats drag'd me to red Gowns,O! but they be a Byke o' Lowns,
They're war nor a our Scots Dragoons,
ay speaking La,
I wad ha given fiftie Crowns
to been awa.
38
A Child ca'd Dempster ga' a Rair,I wish that Fellow ne'er speak mair,
Fain wad I flung him o'er the Stair:
e'er e'er I kend,
My Spauls plaid quake, and a' my Hair,
stood upon End.
39
I thought for a' the Law they had,Really the Men were a gane mad,
To make a Poor Things Heart so sad,
as they made me,
And put a Life out, which I wed,
they cannot gi'.
40
Out o'er the Hallon keikt Nans Blair,Cry'd, Cheat the Woodie, are ye there,
Ye're e'en the very wyle of Wair,
an Sonsie Dear,
19
to see you here.
41
Wha wad ha tald this Yesternight,This Day we wad seen sic a Sight,
We wad na thought them very right,
in their Noddle,
We wad nae gi'en for you, poor Wight,
A bare Bodle.
42
I mind a Tale my Granddame spake,Well cou'd the couthsome Carling crack,
Crosses that bring Fok maist to Wrack;
brings some sma' gain,
Ye've got a new Suit on your Back,
to make you fain,
43
A braw Kist made be my ha'f Brother,I'd be ha'f hang'd for sick another;
For if I may believe my Mother,
she swears to me,
We drink sae fast with an another,
we'll Beggars die,
44
Now Magie, I'll harl in the Stool,Altho' the Sown-Pat should cool,
Fegs I cou'd clatter here till Yule.
and no think lang,
Meg, tell me, ye been at the School,
is't sair to hang?
45
Quoth Meg let me my Story tell,Soon as I frae the Gallows fell,
20
which Bessie gave.
Better is in Musleburgh to dwell,
nor a cald Grave.
46
Follow'd by mony a Whore and Bawd,And mony a murdering Surgeon Lad,
They're perfet D---ls, war nor they're ca'd,
I'd fain been hame,
I thought wi' Knives, and Sheers they wad.
rip up my Wame.
47
I took a Rest at Pepper-Mill,A het Pint and a double Gill,
Indeed it did not do me ill;
but meikle good,
Pet Purdie, wha has right good Skill,
of me drew Blood.
48
When I sat up upon the Grass,Before them all upon my Arse:
To see my Blood, I must confess,
I was not fain,
In Hangies greatest Rop-Distress,
I felt no Pain.
49
Syne I came unco bravely hame,Whan I got Sunkets in my Wame,
I'll tell ye all, and ne'er think Shame,
Sae wad ye a',
When Folks half Hang'd, who can them blame,
to rin awa',
50
Now Cummers, sen I am come back,E'en let us birl about our Plack,
21
upo' the Leather?
I do nae mind a Word I spake
when in the Teather.
EPILOGUE to Meg Dickson's Loup from the Ladder.
1
The Judges me condemned have,And hither I am brought,
I am not like to get a Reprive,
But truely I am Hought.
2
And now I'm on the Ladder set,And Hangies standing by:
No Mercy I am like to get,
Now I must surely die.
3
Just now my one Foot's turned out,My other soon will follow,
Then Hangman John gave the shout,
The D---l confound the Fellow.
4
And now I am waving in the Wind,And from the World hurried,
Good People take a Care behind.
For now by J---c I'm worried.
22
An Epistle to a Gladiator, that Morning he fought Obryan.
23
His Mem'ry rots, his Souls in Hell.
Dogs lick his Blood in open Sun,
And piss upon him when they've done.
Speculations on a Sparrow's Nest, in the Skull of Baillie the Robber.
Brave Baillie, thou'rt a Miracle to me,Two Worlds are deeply Debitor to thee;
24
Thy awful Reliques now adorns this Pole.
Strange useful Man! even hanging in these Chains,
Thy Head's a Druggist's Shop, the Doctors stole thy Brains,
Thy salutif'rous Skull doth Vigour give,
Bold Man! you dy'd that we might longer live.
Rogues tremble when thy bleached Bones they see,
You preach Repentance from that awful Tree,
Birds fly from other Men, but flock to thee.
And deepest Wisdom shines in what they do,
They only live by stealing, so did you;
In Gratitude they visit their Relation,
Love you so well you are their Habitation,
They in thy Pericranium build their Nest,
And there they hatch their Young, and there they live at Rest.
Sound may they sleep exalted in the Air,
The plund'ring School-boys dare not venture there.
The silly Swallows David did envy,
Who in their Beds did round the Altars ly;
But you are wondrous wise in what you do,
No Man alive will ever envy you.
Your Offspring will be very wise and vain,
And foolish Man have reason to complain,
We're Children of the Womb, they're Children of the Brain.
25
Meditations on pulling Mushrooms.
I
What art thou, or from whence, we do not know.You quickly come, and very quickly go,
O beauteous short liv'd Creature!
Thou'rt neither Flesh, Fish, Herb nor Fruit.
Or Insect, who can find thee out?
Thou Miracle of Nature.
II
Art thou the Prophet Jonah's Gourd,Who preach'd in Nineveh the Word?
His Tub was wondrous frail.
If Stipends did as soon decay,
There's Fifty Priests that wou'd not stay,
All their Harrangues would fail.
III
Like ancient Manna with the Sun,You show your Head and then you're gone;
You dare not live a Day.
Only the Grashopper and you,
Pay visits to the Morning Dew,
Then gravely go away.
IV
Thou'rt Object of the Vulgar's Hate,A sav'ry Breakfast to the Great,
Thy Virtues can't be told.
26
Thy Body we preserve in Pickle,
As Mummies were of old.
V
When Father Adam did rebel,And from his florid Garden fell,
O happy, happy Plant!
You did not flourish in his Clime,
You did not suffer by his Crime,
And therefore innocent.
VI
Had Eva, e'er she touch'd the Fruit,Seen Mushrooms starting at the Root,
With crimson Gills and snowy Skin,
She would have left the damned Tree,
And bowing low have lifted thee,
And so escap'd the Sin.
VII
The Curse entail'd was, Man should eat.His daily Food with daily Sweat;
But when we purchase you,
We need not wound the Earth with Spade,
We need not tire our Shoulder-Blade,
Or strike the labouring Plow.
27
Inscription for the Grave of George Paterson, who hewed out the subterranean Caves at Gilmerton, Opus quinque annorum.
I
He did not live upon the Earth,Yet was no Antipode,
An Army could not lift his Bed,
Tho' only three Foot broad.
II
He liv'd, as now he lies, below,But curst or blest we do not know,
To put upon Record.
His Labours, being rocky Stone,
Won't follow him now when he's gone,
Like those die in the Lord.
III
Th'Estate he left consists in Land,On which the Sun ne'er shone,
No Bird or Beast did ever stand,
Or Grass did grow thereon.
IV
His Heritage is situate so,'Twill last without all Doubt,
For all the Wind that e'er did blow
Could never find it out.
28
V
It fears no Fire, it feels no Plow,Was never wet with morning Dew,
Pays neither Cess nor Tiend.
Sure, Passenger, when this you read,
You'll think his Heirs have scarcely Bread,
Admire how they're maintain'd.
Comical Reflections on a Taylor's Sign thus blazon'd, Azure, a Hand couped, ruffled proper, grasping a Pair of Scissars, expanded, Ore, pointing to the Crest, a meridian Sun of the 2d. incircled with Motto, Let Work bear Witness .
Gaze, Passengers, upon this Taylor's House,And view the Pomp and Pride of Prick the Louse,
Lo, here's a Sign all overspread with Charms,
Never had Taylor such a Coat of Arms.
A Hand cut off adorns the azure Field,
Which truly, Sirs, doth this Reflection yield,
A Taylor's Hand, that steals the People's Stuff,
Doth very well deserve to be cut off.
The Scissars pointing at the Sun's bright Rays,
The thievish Temper of the Man displays.
Fain would he steal the very God of Day,
And clip his golden Fringes all away.
29
To see how Gordon will translate the Sun.
Methinks I hear him say, ‘Mad Man give o'er,
‘The Sun ne'er shin'd on such a Fool before,
‘Surely you've broke your Leg in stretching high,
‘To steal the Sun down from the azure Sky.
Most just that Motto should surround your Crest,
Let Work bear Witness, you're a witless Beast.
Inscription for the Carters Conveening-hall in Leith.
Great God whose potent Arm does drive the Sun,The Carters bless whilst Wheels of Time shall run,
Of old they drove thy sacred Ark, O God,
Guide thou their Hands and Steps in every Road.
Protect this House they dedicate to thee,
Increase and sanctifie their Charity.
Thy Blessing, Lord, be its Foundation-Stone,
And they'll ascribe the Praise to thee alone.
Comfort to an afflicted Father upon the Death of his only Child, who died thro' bad Nursing.
I
What tho' he dies, to Heav'n he flies,Now Glory's his Abode.
30
To quarrel with their God.
II
With Faith's Views look on God, who tookHim from a Breast that fed ill:
He makes him Streams of Life to suck,
And Abraham's Breast's the Cradle.
III
Instead of Balow sung to him,The Child Te Deum sings.
He's swaddled in a Saviour's Robes,
His Blankets Angels Wings.
IV
What's Acres dull Inheritance,Or Money which doth rot,
He wisely flew to Heaven at once,
And there a Kingdom got.
V
O foolish Father! do you weepTo lose an Heir to Pelf?
And now, because you want a Child,
You'll turn a Child yourself.
A country Notar's morning Hymn to the Gibbet, erected before his Door.
Hail, awful Statue, welcome to my Door;Never had Vintner such a Sign before.
31
But my Defence is Gallows and a Cord.
Astrologers, on Stars ye need not gaze,
To know what Kind of Death will end my Days.
Thanks to Buccleugh, long will she live, I hope,
Who honours me to cast my Choroscope.
Here's a Memento mori giv'n to me,
That I must hang, like Haman, on a Tree.
With lowly Rev'rence on my Knees I'll bend,
And look to thee, and mind my latter End.
Seldom we landed Gentlemen forget,
To place our Coat of Arms at our Gate.
Here's mine display'd, more antient than them all,
To tell I'm Suple Tam, the Laird of Gallowshall.
On a matchless Miser, who was imprisoned, and had his valuable Effects rifled, 19 May 1727.
These Fifty Years I have been gath'ring Gods,And pack'd them up as Merchants do their Loads.
Some humble Ones amongst old Feathers lay,
Whilst I to them did most devoutly pray.
How could I think their Godships long would ly,
To whom I gave so many Wings to fly?
Others did lurk in Stockings and old Shoes,
My Paper-deities were wrapt in Clues.
32
Russians broke up its Gates with Iron Mall,
And poinded all my Gods, and sent myself to Hell.
I'd easy been, but I'm of all bereav'd,
Whate'er became of me, had all my Gods been sav'd.
The Taylor in Triumph, or Beau Stitch's Speech to his Brethren, entring his Chariot for the Country.
Whilst I my Chariot mount in solemn Pride,Trudge you on Foot, or on your Ell-wands ride.
I have the Face and Fashions of a Duke,
All Taylors else like Corn-cutters look.
Did e'er Scots Taylor such a Grandeur reach?
You lousy Lowns, bow low to brave Beau Stitch.
Call here a Painter, he must draw me fine,
Sitting within my Chariot on my Sign.
My Page, who's well rewarded for his Pains,
Bareheaded guides the Horses by the Reins.
The Sun will blush, and be asham'd to see
A Taylor drive in greater State than he.
I go to court a Lady in the South,
Each Day I'll dance, each Minute kiss her Mouth.
O! I will talk with a Parisian Grace,
To see the Ladies laughing in my Face.
I'll fight my Rivals, they'll my Fury feel,
And tie them Captives to my Chariot-wheel.
33
To ballance me from flying in the Air.
Thro' Vanity I scarce can keep the Ground,
My Head's too giddy for so loud a Wind.
Epistle to an heretical Professor.
Be dumb, you Sophist, metaphysick Fool,With your dull Cant, and Gibb'rish of the School:
You'll rake in Rubbish of an Arian Crew,
Quibble and vamp their aged Errors new.
Dark and perplex'd, and whimsical your Brain,
You toil in Trash, and vomit Froth with Pain.
In splitting of an Hair consume an Hour.
Not Jacob Bechman's Works are so obscure.
You torture Texts, and squeeze the Hebrew Roots,
As some did Whigs in Thumbikins and Boots.
Peep in the Grand Secret, and with your Seeing,
The Son of God has but a casual Being.
I'll sooner prove with Blasphemies you're cramm'd,
And, ex necessitate, you are damn'd.
Arius of old an Athanasius found,
Clear'd Truths divine, and heal'd the bleeding Wound.
Mysterious Jargon cannot travel far,
We'll crush the Cockatrice, and end the fruitless War.
34
The Self-tormenter.
There is a Wretch, the greatest Wretch alive,Eager for Gold, yet wants the Art to thrive.
This Devil of a Man with magick Spell,
Torments himself, and antedates his Hell.
Still pain'd with some imaginary Loss,
And he, before he wants, will coin a Cross.
His Mind and he are at perpetual Strife,
So loses all the Sweets, and dear Delights of Life.
A constant Gloom sits on his lab'ring Brow,
He speaks in broken Sentences to you.
Five hundred Pounds per annum gives this Squire,
Five hundred Faggots to augment the Fire.
This Hour he fears some Charter has a Flaw,
Next Session will be casten at the Law.
His infant Heir will spend what he has gain'd,
And thus, like Ixion, to the Wheel he's chain'd.
His growing Girl will rob him of his Pelf,
And choose some brawny Bankrupt for herself.
Perhaps his Wife with Horns will plant his Head,
And Bastards shall succeed him when he's dead,
Corns will be cheaper in the coming Years,
So he'll be ruin'd quite with modest Fiars.
The Reverse of good Nature and good Sense,
Who will not trust a Groat to Providence.
Happy the easy Man, devoid of Care,
Lives on his Stock, and seeks Supply by Pray'r.
By prudent Methods seeks a fair Estate,
Nor doth he sink to meet with adverse Fate.
35
Inscription for the Grave-stone of Mr. David Ferry, late School-master of Auchtermuchty, who died, June 1. 1726, in the 62 Year of his Age.
Here doth a good Man's aged Ashes dwell,Who conquer'd Death, by Faith, before he fell.
He's fond to flit into a proper Sphere,
Who trafficks long with Heav'n, and lives by Pray'r.
In all the Learning of the Schools deep skill'd,
Which with a native Modesty he vail'd.
Poor Students found him generous and kind,
On his Love-feasts they very often din'd.
He fed, at once, their Body and their Mind.
No Miser many of his Goods did share,
Food to the Needy gave, and cloth'd the Bare.
Grace and good Nature thro his Actions ran,
By Heaven approv'd, and lov'd by every Man.
Reader, receive Instruction from this Stone,
And imitate his Virtues when he's gone.
36
The heavenly Vision. Sacred to the Memory of her Grace Anne Dutchess of Hamilton, Chattlerault, and Brandon, who died of Child-bearing the Seventeenth Year of her Age.
In the still Hours when Nature takes her Nod,
And Saints in rapt'rous Dreams enjoy their God.
Tabitha's Temples felt an heav'nly Flame,
Whilst round her Couch swift burning Cherubs came.
A solemn Glory spread the shining Train,
She saw and blest the visionary Scene.
But ah! amongst the holy hymning Crowd,
Albion's bright Angel, fair Cochrania stood,
A Seraph perch'd her on a Cherub's Wing,
And as they flew did new made Anthems sing,
Ye fair, but false, stop, stop, Tabitha cry'd.
An Angel lag'd behind, and thus reply'd,
Don't think that we're of Wickedness possest,
That Envy lodges in an Angel's Breast,
If on a Dunghill lay the Morning-star,
And we transferr'd it to its proper Sphere;
Or if celestial Forms, should quit their Dome,
And visit Mortals in this lower Room,
And we were sent patrouling on Command,
To take and turn them to their native Land,
Would you complain we're arbitrary Pow'rs,
For snatching of our own, and nought that's your's?
Sev'nteen revolving Years the Sun has seen,
Upon your Dunghill Earth, this Heaven-born Queen,
Sick with the sultry Air she shuts her Eyes,
And mingles with her Mates, and mounts the Skies.
Don't sob her Epitaph, you want the Skill,
Tell it was written with an Angel's Quill.
And Saints in rapt'rous Dreams enjoy their God.
Tabitha's Temples felt an heav'nly Flame,
Whilst round her Couch swift burning Cherubs came.
A solemn Glory spread the shining Train,
She saw and blest the visionary Scene.
But ah! amongst the holy hymning Crowd,
Albion's bright Angel, fair Cochrania stood,
A Seraph perch'd her on a Cherub's Wing,
And as they flew did new made Anthems sing,
Ye fair, but false, stop, stop, Tabitha cry'd.
An Angel lag'd behind, and thus reply'd,
Don't think that we're of Wickedness possest,
That Envy lodges in an Angel's Breast,
If on a Dunghill lay the Morning-star,
And we transferr'd it to its proper Sphere;
Or if celestial Forms, should quit their Dome,
And visit Mortals in this lower Room,
37
To take and turn them to their native Land,
Would you complain we're arbitrary Pow'rs,
For snatching of our own, and nought that's your's?
Sev'nteen revolving Years the Sun has seen,
Upon your Dunghill Earth, this Heaven-born Queen,
Sick with the sultry Air she shuts her Eyes,
And mingles with her Mates, and mounts the Skies.
Don't sob her Epitaph, you want the Skill,
Tell it was written with an Angel's Quill.
EPITAPH.
Never in a Bed of Rest,Did so much Beauty ly.
Never from an human Breast
Did so much Virtue fly.
The Character of a Whip-man.
A Whipman is the greatest Prince in Nature,He hath a vast Dominion o'er the Creature.
The stately Steed which proudly spurns the Ground,
Rushes on Battle at the Trumpet's Sound,
With Nostrils breathing War, disdains to yield,
Trampling on conqu'ring Captains in the Field,
Is to the Whipman humble as a Sheep,
Obeys the awful Language of the Whip.
38
Honours are heap'd upon the Whipman's Head.
In this consists the Majesty of Kings,
The Subjects draw, the Sovereign guides the Reins,
And, when the restive Vassals will not draw,
Doth boldly lash them with the Whip of Law.
The Whipman's yet more glorious and great,
He guides the Men who guide the Helm of State.
A King won't trust the Peerage of a Nation,
Without the tedious Oath of Abjuration,
But when the Whipman guides him he's secure,
And puts his royal Person in his Pow'r.
Spokes of a Wheel are in perpetual Motion,
Fit Emblems of the Reelings of a Nation.
Pray for our King, all loyal Souls may rise,
And get the Whip-hand of his Enemies.
Prosperity your good Designs attend,
And drive you all unto an happy End.
A Manifesto from the bold Sons of Britain, to the poor proud Spaniard besieging Gibraltar.
Dear bought Gibraltar, shall we part with thee,
And lose our vast Dominions of the Sea?
No, no, a British Brav'ry we display,
Like Log-wood you, or lazy Lumps of Clay.
Britons are stout as in the Days of Yore.
Ye Slaves, go sweat in Indian Mines for Ore,
To circulate through France and Britain's Isle,
And when we see its golden Cheeks we'll smile,
Say, here's the rich Return of Britain's Trade,
Which gives the proud and idle Drones their Bread.
And lose our vast Dominions of the Sea?
No, no, a British Brav'ry we display,
Like Log-wood you, or lazy Lumps of Clay.
39
Ye Slaves, go sweat in Indian Mines for Ore,
To circulate through France and Britain's Isle,
And when we see its golden Cheeks we'll smile,
Say, here's the rich Return of Britain's Trade,
Which gives the proud and idle Drones their Bread.
The Annals of Eliza's Reign do boast,
Your mad Armado danc'd upon our Coast,
A deadly Dance, when th'Elements combin'd,
Fierce angry Waves, and Hurricanes of Wind,
And God Almighty in the Battle join'd.
The conqu'ring Floods did o'er your Vessels ride,
Swallow'd up Thousands each returning Tide.
Your mad Armado danc'd upon our Coast,
A deadly Dance, when th'Elements combin'd,
Fierce angry Waves, and Hurricanes of Wind,
And God Almighty in the Battle join'd.
The conqu'ring Floods did o'er your Vessels ride,
Swallow'd up Thousands each returning Tide.
From Namure's Siege unto Almanza's War,
The Glory of the Briton's travell'd far.
Each Day our Heroes did fresh Laurels gain,
Climbing o'er Heaps, like Mountains, of the Slain
Which made the proud and haughty Spaniards bow:
For Heav'n was still our grand Confed'rate too.
Strength may push down all Nations to Disgrace,
Except the Angels and the British Race.
We fear no Beings, nor their Fury dread,
Save heav'nly Hosts and GOD upon their Head.
Britain, assisted by the Arms of France,
Shall to Madrid in solemn Pomp advance.
The wise, the warlike George prepares to go
And finish Peace, or give the killing Blow,
Success attend his Actions ev'ry where,
'Till British Lions shall th'Imperial Eagle tear.
The Glory of the Briton's travell'd far.
Each Day our Heroes did fresh Laurels gain,
Climbing o'er Heaps, like Mountains, of the Slain
Which made the proud and haughty Spaniards bow:
For Heav'n was still our grand Confed'rate too.
Strength may push down all Nations to Disgrace,
Except the Angels and the British Race.
We fear no Beings, nor their Fury dread,
Save heav'nly Hosts and GOD upon their Head.
Britain, assisted by the Arms of France,
Shall to Madrid in solemn Pomp advance.
The wise, the warlike George prepares to go
And finish Peace, or give the killing Blow,
Success attend his Actions ev'ry where,
'Till British Lions shall th'Imperial Eagle tear.
40
A Tale of a Beau and a Barber.
A story reach'd my Ears some Days ago,Which happen'd 'twixt a Barber and a Beau.
The fluttering Fop came to get bare his Chin,
To kiss the softer at the secret Sin.
The Shaver he was paddling clean his Shop,
Gave to his Wife the Razor and the Soap,
Who was a buxum Frow, both Blyth and fair,
She trimm'd the Youth and pulveriz'd his Hair;
And he, thro' Kindness, like a bawdy Beau,
Did feel the Buckle of her Furbelow.
Her Husband heard a stuggle with his Wife,
Came with the Paddle to decide the Strife,
Repeted Blows upon his Beauship's Snout,
Until the Blood as fast as Oaths came out.
He curs'd and cry'd, and to a Surgeon fled,
Relating all the Villain Barber did,
Surpriz'd, the Surgeon, says, ‘You scare can stand,
‘What, had you ne'er a Weapon in your Hand?
My Hand, quoth he, did with his Wife's Flesh meddle,
But what was that, you Blockhead, to a Paddle.
A Farewel to B--- entering the Boat to fulfil his Sentence of Banishment.
The Ark, when cramm'd with unclean Beast was not,Half so polluted as that little Boat,
41
Ten Troops of Devils in his Heart do dwell.
The Ship he goes in never needs careen,
Since all the Ocean will not wash her clean,
So heavy lade we fear she will not swim,
A thousand Tun os Curses go with him.
Son of Perdition, cursed may he be,
And, like the Gad'ren Hogs, be drown'd at Sea.
Good Heav'n preserve the Cargo and the Crew,
And Death and Hell have Pow'r of none save you.
Inscription upon the Grave-stone of George Button Taylor, where lies interr'd several of that Name.
Reader, bid ev'ry Taylor leave his House,Knights of the ancient Order of the Louse,
Hither resort to see that Death's turn'd daft,
For he's commenc'd a Brother of the Craft.
Never such Wonder seen betwixt the Poles,
All the Graves here are turn'd to Button Holes,
And fill'd with Buttons, Oh! 'tis strange indeed,
Made without Hands, a Needle or a Thread.
On the Grave-stone of Mr. William More.
Here lies More, and no more than he.More and no more, how can that be?
42
A Tale of a Muir-cock, written originally in the Celtick Language by the famous Mythologist Alaster Macalamore, in Villa Cuculi, carefully preserved by a MS. belonging to the Pluscardin Monks, now faithfully rendered into English.
From ancient Nest did spring a droll Muir-cock,Who gravely preach'd to all the Feather'd Flock,
Tho' he was known to be no Bird of Brains,
By lusty Lungs he pick'd up wholsome Grains,
The Idiot Birds did round their Pastor throng,
And listen'd to his Heather-blutter Song.
Two Nests he had, from thence did weekly preach,
By Law secur'd, and out of Dangers reach,
Had not he said, That Title to the Crown
The Eagle had, was just as bad's his own;
Which being join'd with an excessive Drowth,
The Sanhedrim of Birds shut up his Mouth.
Such was his Drowth he could have drunk the Sea,
Tho' Birds of Grace should always sober be.
He never preach'd save at a River's Brink,
Daub'd in his Beak, and guzzled down the Drink.
He lost his Text when on a naked Rock,
But Liquor put fresh Spirits in the Cock.
So lost his Stipends, almost lost his Breath,
For he lay hungry on the naked Heath.
43
Who cunning had amongst the most of Men,
She was related to the Birds of Grandeur,
And bensh'd and peensh'd, and to each Bush did wander,
And cry'd and ly'd, till her rich Friends did give
Fund for her self, and Cock and Pout to live,
Whilst he thro' Want and Infamy was cross'd,
Still thinking on the happy Nests he lost,
Sending Addresses to the sacred Train,
That they'd repone him to those Nests again,
Which they rejected with a cold Disdain.
At last he plots with Resolution stout,
A Way to get rich Husband to the Pout,
Intic'd a witless, young well-feather'd Bird,
With many a silken and a suggar Word,
'Till fuddled with intoxicating Streams,
His Head's afloat with airy am'rous Dreams,
Feeding and feasting on the Pout's fair Face,
Said, reverend Cock, pronounce the Rites of Grace.
Who, like a grave and venerable Cock,
Did say the Grace, and made them married Folk,
Blest the young Birds, and all the drunken Gossips.
Fistula dulce canit, volucrem dum decipit auceps.
The Trial and Condemnation of this Muir-cock, extracted from the above Register.
Judges, of old, amongst the Feather'd Flock,
A Diet held, to try this mad Muir-cock,
Who stood indicted by a learn'd Gormaw,
The Eagle's Advocate and Fisk of Law,
His Crimes were very great, and very gross,
Enough to sink the Muir, and blast the Moss.
A Diet held, to try this mad Muir-cock,
44
The Eagle's Advocate and Fisk of Law,
His Crimes were very great, and very gross,
Enough to sink the Muir, and blast the Moss.
INDICTMENT.
Muir-cock yon stand accus'd of being a Cheat,Using bad Means to purchase Drink and Meat;
Tho' you was early consecrate a Priest,
Sham'd godly Birds, and turn'd a drunken Beast.
Deny'd the Eagle's Title to the Crown,
And from two rich well feather'd Nests pull'd down;
Was stigmatiz'd by the high Sanhedrim,
But their Correction made you grow more slim.
Of late you laid a most pernicious Plot,
For Liquor to your all-devouring Throat,
By hellish Arts your Purpose brought about,
Marry'd a simple Bird to your suspected Pout;
Tho' she were virt'ous, still it would be said,
She had a pimping, tho' a preaching Dad.
Which being prov'd by Verdict of Assize,
The Pannel's either banished or dies;
The Jury gave a formidable Stroke,
And Sentence thus went out against the Cock.
The SENTENCE.
‘Muir-cock, for this high aggravated Crime,‘We banish you into a foreign Clime.
‘Gled, take him to the Peak of Tenariff,
‘Their nail his Foot, and to augment his Grief,
‘Set Drink at Distance from him for a Mock,
‘'Till Vultures wonder and devour the Cock.
45
The Zealous Constable; or, the Criminal Stirling Impeach'd for High-Treason.
A zealous Brother of the Canting Crew,
A Sabbatarian, stricker than a Jew,
Who thinks Hipocrisy a Gospel Creed,
And solid Piety, but a legal Weed,
A Sabbatarian, stricker than a Jew,
Who thinks Hipocrisy a Gospel Creed,
And solid Piety, but a legal Weed,
On his Reforming Survey, Sabbath last,
(He'll turn that Festival unto a Fast,)
Seiz'd on a joicie Joint of roasted Meat,
And bid the graceless Owner chew the Spit.
Ungracious Man! I'll execute the Law,
And keep it to my own Spiritual Maw,
The plunder'd Person staring in his Face,
Cry'd twenty De'ils go down, make that the Grace,
(He'll turn that Festival unto a Fast,)
Seiz'd on a joicie Joint of roasted Meat,
And bid the graceless Owner chew the Spit.
Ungracious Man! I'll execute the Law,
And keep it to my own Spiritual Maw,
The plunder'd Person staring in his Face,
Cry'd twenty De'ils go down, make that the Grace,
The Seisure's made, O! then he gravely says,
(For when he Robbs, he penitently prays)
Ale drinking's a sad Sin, but none of mine,
The Spirit rises better with Good Wine.
(For when he Robbs, he penitently prays)
Ale drinking's a sad Sin, but none of mine,
The Spirit rises better with Good Wine.
There's yet another Sin which much prevails,
Women on Sabbaths bearing Milking Pails;
Elders and Deacons, tho' the Church's Prope,
Had never Courage yet to seize a Stoup.
Officer, Go take the Milk from yon Milk Maids,
And Poind their Pinners, since they have no Plaids.
The Beagle said, before he made them stand,
This holy Work will sour upon our Hand.
But he chastis'd a worse Transgression yet,
This Holy Man is for his Office fit,
People prophane; whose Tongues are Satan's Swords,
Transmit their Venom to their Bairns and Birds.
Women on Sabbaths bearing Milking Pails;
Elders and Deacons, tho' the Church's Prope,
Had never Courage yet to seize a Stoup.
Officer, Go take the Milk from yon Milk Maids,
And Poind their Pinners, since they have no Plaids.
The Beagle said, before he made them stand,
This holy Work will sour upon our Hand.
46
This Holy Man is for his Office fit,
People prophane; whose Tongues are Satan's Swords,
Transmit their Venom to their Bairns and Birds.
A Stirling hatch'd in some Malignant Nest,
Had learn'd a Song which should not be exprest,
Thrice with his Batton did he touch the Cage,
And roaring forth, like Doctor on a Stage,
Cries, O, thou art a Mad Malignant Bird,
To sing a Song, that's Treason every Word!
Had ye been taught by me, a Bow-head Saint,
You'd Sung the Solemn League and Covenant;
Bessie of Lanerk, or the Last good Night:
But you're a Bird Prelatick, that's no right;
Ye have a Breath that doth pollute the Air,
You turn a Tory-Tune unto a Sabbath Prayer.
Ye have been bred by that Malignant Lown,
Dean of Dumblain, I seiz'd upon his Gown.
Go, take it to the Guard, and Owner both,
Until they swear the Abjuration Oath,
Compear before the Constables and Session,
And make an ample and sincere Confession.
These Stirlings are an unco kind of Folk,
This is a Rebel worse than the Muir-cock,
O could my Batton reach the Leavrocks too,
They're chirping Jammie, Jammie, just like you,
I hate vain Birds that lead Malignant Lives,
But love the Chanters to the Bow-head Wives.
Had learn'd a Song which should not be exprest,
Thrice with his Batton did he touch the Cage,
And roaring forth, like Doctor on a Stage,
Cries, O, thou art a Mad Malignant Bird,
To sing a Song, that's Treason every Word!
Had ye been taught by me, a Bow-head Saint,
You'd Sung the Solemn League and Covenant;
Bessie of Lanerk, or the Last good Night:
But you're a Bird Prelatick, that's no right;
Ye have a Breath that doth pollute the Air,
You turn a Tory-Tune unto a Sabbath Prayer.
Ye have been bred by that Malignant Lown,
Dean of Dumblain, I seiz'd upon his Gown.
Go, take it to the Guard, and Owner both,
Until they swear the Abjuration Oath,
Compear before the Constables and Session,
And make an ample and sincere Confession.
These Stirlings are an unco kind of Folk,
This is a Rebel worse than the Muir-cock,
O could my Batton reach the Leavrocks too,
They're chirping Jammie, Jammie, just like you,
I hate vain Birds that lead Malignant Lives,
But love the Chanters to the Bow-head Wives.
The Captain smil'd to see the merry Jest,
A well-bred Bird mock'd by an ill-bred Beast.
A well-bred Bird mock'd by an ill-bred Beast.
47
A DIALOGUE betwixt a Glasgow Malt-man and an English Excise-man, at the Commencement of the Malt-tax.
Armati Terram exercent semperque recentes,
Convictare juvat prædas et vivere rapto.
Virg. Æneid. L. 3.
Convictare juvat prædas et vivere rapto.
Virg. Æneid. L. 3.
Flush'd with a double Draught of double Strong,
A merry Malt-man took his Morning Song;
Blyth as the Lark, chants to the rising Morn,
Sung to the Praise of Sir John Barleycorn:
He views the swelling Steep, and is well pleas'd,
The Font where Sir John Barleycorn's baptiz'd;
Gives him fresh Liquor, since his old is stale,
Knowing he'll pay him back in humming Ale;
Surveys his Circuit in its Breadth and Length,
And laughs to see him quicken unto Strength:
Then to the Kiln, his Altar, doth retire,
Where he, like Ceres Priest, keeps a perpetual Fire;
Upon his Bed of Straw makes him ly snug,
And cloathes him with a covenanted Rug,
The Kirk's Hair-gown, and by that Weed's foretold,
He'll prove a lusty Sinner when he's old.
Back to the Floor returns, takes a new Broom,
And, like a faithful Keeper, sweeps the Room:
Toil'd with his Morning Task, lies down to rest,
Making a Pillow of his Master's Breast.
Scarce has he sunk to downy sleep, when he
Is rous'd from dreaming, by a turning Key,
And Voice of Bully from a foreign Land,
Come to Sir John, to gage his Stock in Hand:
The figur'd Tap flies from Pandora's Box,
Worse than the Plague, the Pestilence or Pox,
Draws out an English Yard, and at the Length,
Measures his Breadth, his Thickness and his Strength;
Stop, stop ye English Taylor, Malt man cries,
And reverence my Master where he lies,
An English Suit was never on his Back,
Naked at Home, Abroad he wears a Sack.
D---n your Blood B---r Scot, quoth English Tom,
(Who was an honest Highway-man at Home.)
I'm Servant to old England, and be Gad,
We'll gage Sir John, and starve him out of Trade;
We'll levy Taxes by a pow'rful Host,
Go you complain unto Belhaven's Ghost.
May neither Oats nor Oxen grace your Ground,
Or Plants, or Eatables with you be found;
May Lice and Mange suck and corrupt your Blood,
And you, unfed, your self be Vermine's Food,
'Till you herd English Hogs, thro' Want of Bread,
And nought, save English Laws, be read be-north the Tweed
Who can describe the mournful Malt-man's Case;
Who saw old Tyburn in his English Face?
Three Times he knock'd his Heart, which sunk like Lead,
And thrice the Scoop he flourish'd round his Head,
Kicking the Besom, round the Floor he ran,
And threw a Firlot at the Gaging-man,
Whilst Peats, like Hail-stones, flew upon his Hide,
Cried, D---l steep you English Rogues in Clyde;
And when you have got sufficient of the Steep,
A Last of D---ls rot you in the Heap,
And work you thro' their Floor with hellish Skill,
Then dry you on their ever burning Kill;
Six Times he groan'd and fell upon Sir John,
Said, O my dear dead Master, art thou gone?
Ah! how can we survive thy fatal Fall,
Thou universal Parent of us all?
Sucking thy Blood we spent the merry Hours,
Thy Blood was consubstantiate with ours;
Our Mother's Milk was soon expel'd by thine,
A Liquor scarce inferior to the Wine;
Each Mouth, with Pleasure, gapt to let thee in;
The Nation was thy Flesh, thy Blood, thy near in Kin.
A merry Malt-man took his Morning Song;
Blyth as the Lark, chants to the rising Morn,
Sung to the Praise of Sir John Barleycorn:
He views the swelling Steep, and is well pleas'd,
The Font where Sir John Barleycorn's baptiz'd;
Gives him fresh Liquor, since his old is stale,
Knowing he'll pay him back in humming Ale;
Surveys his Circuit in its Breadth and Length,
And laughs to see him quicken unto Strength:
Then to the Kiln, his Altar, doth retire,
Where he, like Ceres Priest, keeps a perpetual Fire;
Upon his Bed of Straw makes him ly snug,
And cloathes him with a covenanted Rug,
The Kirk's Hair-gown, and by that Weed's foretold,
He'll prove a lusty Sinner when he's old.
48
And, like a faithful Keeper, sweeps the Room:
Toil'd with his Morning Task, lies down to rest,
Making a Pillow of his Master's Breast.
Scarce has he sunk to downy sleep, when he
Is rous'd from dreaming, by a turning Key,
And Voice of Bully from a foreign Land,
Come to Sir John, to gage his Stock in Hand:
The figur'd Tap flies from Pandora's Box,
Worse than the Plague, the Pestilence or Pox,
Draws out an English Yard, and at the Length,
Measures his Breadth, his Thickness and his Strength;
Stop, stop ye English Taylor, Malt man cries,
And reverence my Master where he lies,
An English Suit was never on his Back,
Naked at Home, Abroad he wears a Sack.
D---n your Blood B---r Scot, quoth English Tom,
(Who was an honest Highway-man at Home.)
I'm Servant to old England, and be Gad,
We'll gage Sir John, and starve him out of Trade;
We'll levy Taxes by a pow'rful Host,
Go you complain unto Belhaven's Ghost.
May neither Oats nor Oxen grace your Ground,
Or Plants, or Eatables with you be found;
May Lice and Mange suck and corrupt your Blood,
And you, unfed, your self be Vermine's Food,
'Till you herd English Hogs, thro' Want of Bread,
And nought, save English Laws, be read be-north the Tweed
49
Who saw old Tyburn in his English Face?
Three Times he knock'd his Heart, which sunk like Lead,
And thrice the Scoop he flourish'd round his Head,
Kicking the Besom, round the Floor he ran,
And threw a Firlot at the Gaging-man,
Whilst Peats, like Hail-stones, flew upon his Hide,
Cried, D---l steep you English Rogues in Clyde;
And when you have got sufficient of the Steep,
A Last of D---ls rot you in the Heap,
And work you thro' their Floor with hellish Skill,
Then dry you on their ever burning Kill;
Six Times he groan'd and fell upon Sir John,
Said, O my dear dead Master, art thou gone?
Ah! how can we survive thy fatal Fall,
Thou universal Parent of us all?
Sucking thy Blood we spent the merry Hours,
Thy Blood was consubstantiate with ours;
Our Mother's Milk was soon expel'd by thine,
A Liquor scarce inferior to the Wine;
Each Mouth, with Pleasure, gapt to let thee in;
The Nation was thy Flesh, thy Blood, thy near in Kin.
Glasgow, with Tears, lament thy rigid Fate,
From Glory tumbled to a wretched State;
Thy Ships, like Woods, danc'd on the wat'ry Brime.
To fetch the Indies to our native Clime;
From foreign Ports no more thy Vessels come,
And Sir John Barleycorn dies at Home.
Ah Glasgow! what's thy Guilt that makes thee poor?
Is it for bearing Arms at S---e;
Without Pay fighting for a F---n P---e;
A very fine Reward he's giv'n you since,
Weeping he threw himself upon Sir John,
Saying, I'll write thy Epitaph on Stone.
From Glory tumbled to a wretched State;
Thy Ships, like Woods, danc'd on the wat'ry Brime.
To fetch the Indies to our native Clime;
From foreign Ports no more thy Vessels come,
And Sir John Barleycorn dies at Home.
Ah Glasgow! what's thy Guilt that makes thee poor?
Is it for bearing Arms at S---e;
50
A very fine Reward he's giv'n you since,
Weeping he threw himself upon Sir John,
Saying, I'll write thy Epitaph on Stone.
Sir John Barleycorn's EPITAPH.
And old bold Warriour, lies within this Clay,Who knock'd down Thousand Mortals in a Day
At last he was betray'd by treach'rous Fellows,
In the same Way in which they murd'red Wallace:
What Guns could not perform, was done by Vote,
In killing him they cut the Nation's Throat.
The Webster's Wife's Tears over her Husband's Testicles, who Castrate himself: In a Dialogue 'twixt her and the Matrons of Middleton.
Dole, dole, dear Cummers, dismal News!
The Webster Lown's lost both his Clews,
My Luckie Loom will idle be,
For neither Woft, nor Worp, has he,
Oft has he stoln to bring us Pelf!
But now the Rogue steals from himself;
Himself quoth I, confound the Villain!
All that's his own's not worth a Shilling,
What signifies his Heart and Head?
No more than theirs that's sev'n Years dead,
The Loss of these I'd ne'er bewail,
His only Talent was his Tail.
And now, alake, alake, dear Kate
He's laid it on a Pewter Plate,
Wo to him and his bloody Knife,
A bonny Break-fast to a Wife!
The Webster Lown's lost both his Clews,
My Luckie Loom will idle be,
For neither Woft, nor Worp, has he,
Oft has he stoln to bring us Pelf!
But now the Rogue steals from himself;
Himself quoth I, confound the Villain!
All that's his own's not worth a Shilling,
What signifies his Heart and Head?
No more than theirs that's sev'n Years dead,
The Loss of these I'd ne'er bewail,
His only Talent was his Tail.
51
He's laid it on a Pewter Plate,
Wo to him and his bloody Knife,
A bonny Break-fast to a Wife!
I must Inter with Grief and Pain,
The Thing will never rise again,
For let him steal as fast's he can,
He'll never make a standing Man:
Poor Dactylus, you'll soon be miss'd,
I'll make you Flannels and a Chest,
Bury you at the Martyrs Tomb;
As formerly in my own Womb;
When Cammeronians come with Groans,
And sigh, upon their Martyrs Bones,
To mourn with them I will not fail,
Upon my Cammeronian's Tail:
Say, Jenny, Bessie, Kate, and Ann?
What shall be done to this base Man!
Quoth Bessie let us e'er we rise,
Pronounce a Verdict of Assize;
Go take him to the West Brae-head,
And Stone the Stoneless Villain dead.
The Thing will never rise again,
For let him steal as fast's he can,
He'll never make a standing Man:
Poor Dactylus, you'll soon be miss'd,
I'll make you Flannels and a Chest,
Bury you at the Martyrs Tomb;
As formerly in my own Womb;
When Cammeronians come with Groans,
And sigh, upon their Martyrs Bones,
To mourn with them I will not fail,
Upon my Cammeronian's Tail:
Say, Jenny, Bessie, Kate, and Ann?
What shall be done to this base Man!
Quoth Bessie let us e'er we rise,
Pronounce a Verdict of Assize;
Go take him to the West Brae-head,
And Stone the Stoneless Villain dead.
Says, Jenny do not let us stone him,
But all sit down and Piss upon him,
For since he's been, such Rogue and Fool
To mangle thus the Marriage Tool,
Most just to put him to Disgrace!
Let's make a Piss-pot of his Face!
Te he, quoth Anne and Kate that's best,
And we'll strone Fine, among the rest!
So let us take a hearty Bicker,
And that will make us Piss the Quicker.
But all sit down and Piss upon him,
For since he's been, such Rogue and Fool
To mangle thus the Marriage Tool,
Most just to put him to Disgrace!
Let's make a Piss-pot of his Face!
Te he, quoth Anne and Kate that's best,
And we'll strone Fine, among the rest!
52
And that will make us Piss the Quicker.
A small Poem on Providence.
Are not the Ravens fed great GOD by thee?And will he cloth the Lillies, and not me?
I'll ne'er distrust my GOD, for Cloaths and Bread,
Whil'st Lillies Flourish and the Ravens feed.
Description of a wonderful Maid to be seen in this City, 160 Years old, with an Account of the surprising Actions she performs.
Few of the Grave and Wise delight to go,
And see vain Plays, or idle Puppet Show:
But blooming Youth, and those with Age decay'd,
Will flock to view this venerable MAID;
No German Monster, ugly to the Eye;
Well shap'd, tho' she hath neither Arm nor Thigh.
Tho' she wants Feet, yet doth she run with speed;
She hath no Hands, and yet she kills Men dead.
The Cockatrice kills with it's Eye, they say,
But she hath none, and with her Lips doth slay:
She hath no Teeth, yet feeds on Bones and Flesh,
Her Drink is Blood, yet never did she Pish,
She hath no Throat, and yet a very Glutton,
How does she gormandize a Craig of Mutton?
No angry Words doth either speak or Write,
Nor fight, but hath a most confounded Bite.
No Party Woman, and it is her Glory,
For equally she wounds the Whig and Tory;
'Tis true, her Pride flies to the highest Pitch;
She Kisses none except the Great and Rich,
And they receive th'imperious MAID's Embrace,
On bended Knees, with Rev'rence bow the Face.
Surely she hath a Kindness to our Nation,
Who UNION hates; she's still for Separation.
Few Maids there are: like her, upon the Earth,
Who never thought on Marriage since her Birth;
Surely she is not sprung of Adam's Seed,
Who never fin'd in Thought or Word or Deed.
From whence can she such powerful Influence draw?
For Faithfully she doth fulfil the Law.
And see vain Plays, or idle Puppet Show:
But blooming Youth, and those with Age decay'd,
Will flock to view this venerable MAID;
No German Monster, ugly to the Eye;
Well shap'd, tho' she hath neither Arm nor Thigh.
Tho' she wants Feet, yet doth she run with speed;
She hath no Hands, and yet she kills Men dead.
The Cockatrice kills with it's Eye, they say,
But she hath none, and with her Lips doth slay:
She hath no Teeth, yet feeds on Bones and Flesh,
53
She hath no Throat, and yet a very Glutton,
How does she gormandize a Craig of Mutton?
No angry Words doth either speak or Write,
Nor fight, but hath a most confounded Bite.
No Party Woman, and it is her Glory,
For equally she wounds the Whig and Tory;
'Tis true, her Pride flies to the highest Pitch;
She Kisses none except the Great and Rich,
And they receive th'imperious MAID's Embrace,
On bended Knees, with Rev'rence bow the Face.
Surely she hath a Kindness to our Nation,
Who UNION hates; she's still for Separation.
Few Maids there are: like her, upon the Earth,
Who never thought on Marriage since her Birth;
Surely she is not sprung of Adam's Seed,
Who never fin'd in Thought or Word or Deed.
From whence can she such powerful Influence draw?
For Faithfully she doth fulfil the Law.
Her Father was a Smith be South the Tweed,
And Halifax brought forth that cruel MAID.
When young, was courted by a Scotish Peer.
His Lordship lov'd her well and brought her here,
Yet, ah! a very strange Reward he got,
The Jezabel kist him, and cut his Throat.
Some do conclude, she's sorry for her Sins,
And now a Life of Penitence begins;
For every Time she goes to take the Air,
Pious Divines are with her closs at Pray'r.
Thrice Fifty Years ago this MAID was seen,
Yet no more Wrinkles hath than when Fifteen.
Her Livery-man, and her Lead colour'd Gown,
Distinguish her from Ladies of the Town.
Lying with her many brave Men have dy'd,
Yet she's a MAID, which cannot be deny'd,
Yet most reclusely lives like any Nun,
For some Years past, she hath not seen the Sun.
You may come view her any Hour of Day,
Learn all is Fact, and only Six Pence Pay.
She lodges at the back of Goldsmith's Hall;
Great is the Wonder and the Payment small.
And Halifax brought forth that cruel MAID.
When young, was courted by a Scotish Peer.
His Lordship lov'd her well and brought her here,
Yet, ah! a very strange Reward he got,
The Jezabel kist him, and cut his Throat.
Some do conclude, she's sorry for her Sins,
And now a Life of Penitence begins;
For every Time she goes to take the Air,
Pious Divines are with her closs at Pray'r.
54
Yet no more Wrinkles hath than when Fifteen.
Her Livery-man, and her Lead colour'd Gown,
Distinguish her from Ladies of the Town.
Lying with her many brave Men have dy'd,
Yet she's a MAID, which cannot be deny'd,
Yet most reclusely lives like any Nun,
For some Years past, she hath not seen the Sun.
You may come view her any Hour of Day,
Learn all is Fact, and only Six Pence Pay.
She lodges at the back of Goldsmith's Hall;
Great is the Wonder and the Payment small.
A modest Caution to Preachers in dissenting Meetings, proper to be read before Sermon, on the 30 January.
Mind you are Chaplains to the Prince of Peace.And let your Anger and your Malice cease.
With Thread-bare Tales no more the Whigs reproach,
In Case your Party come not off in Coach.
'Tis only Whigs, you say, who draw their Sword
To kill their Kings. But who believes your Word.
Go read the Gallick Annals, and you'll find
(Tho' none sees worse than they who will be blind)
Who dispossest weak Childrick of his Crown,
And plac'd the wiser Pepin on the Throne:
But they were Papists, this I do confess,
55
Who did assist the Rotchellers to fight,
And robb'd their sacred Sov'reign of his Right?
That very Monarch you this Day deplore,
So let us hear such vill'nous Cant no more,
Your loyal Scutcheon's overspread with Blots,
Who took the Life of Mary Queen of Scots?
Cheat us no more with your adult'rate Coin,
But tell who fought the Battle of the Boin,
When non-resisting Blades turn'd Volunteers,
Discharg'd their Musquets round their Monarch's Ears,
And all their passive Bullets were appointed
To wound the Heart of J---s, the Lord's anointed.
Tell how in George's Reign Rebellion bred,
And how you basely fought, and bravely fled.
And if with Whigs you Balance Books, we'll see,
In Conscience, Sirs, you are not flyting free;
So I advise to take a Pint and gree.
On a Captain's Sword, lying on a Lady's Whoop.
See, here the Impliments make all Men stoop,The conqu'ring Sword, and dear deluding Whoop,
The First pains Flesh and Blood to enter in,
The second wounds the Heart but not the Skin.
Let them lift up the First to War incline,
I'll lift the Second up, and have a sweet Campaign.
56
A Lady Comforting her self the best Way she can, after losing her Maiden-head.
Why should I weep, why censur'd by the Law,
For losing of the Thing I never saw,
Robin with whom I'm blam'd, dare freely say,
What ever he gave, he nothing took away.
How then can that be lost which none hath found,
And neither is above, nor yet below the Ground?
For losing of the Thing I never saw,
Robin with whom I'm blam'd, dare freely say,
What ever he gave, he nothing took away.
How then can that be lost which none hath found,
And neither is above, nor yet below the Ground?
They say my Mercat's spoil'd, but they are mad,
For I have all the Ware I ever had,
The Spot is still; Robin's be welcome there,
He never did me harm, stole neither Hide nor Hair.
For I have all the Ware I ever had,
The Spot is still; Robin's be welcome there,
He never did me harm, stole neither Hide nor Hair.
Mr. Pennecuik on the first Day of the New Year, going to pay a Visit to the Lady ---, his Aunt, she made him a Present of a Piece of Gold, commonly called a Jacobus, in Return of which, Mr. Pennecuik made the following Poem.
My jolly aged Aunt, as frank as Old,
Tipt me for New Year's Gift, a Piece of Gold,
It was a Jacobus, I with Pleasure took it,
A welcome Stranger to a Poet's Pockets,
Printing a Kiss upon its Golden Cheek,
The more I look'd, I lov'd, and thus did speak,
O Royal James, a Century and more,
You've tane your Tour, around the British Shore
Yet scarcely I e'r I saw your Face before.
Misers and sordid Souls you often see,
But turn your Back on generous Men like me,
My Heart's not glu'd unto your shining Brow,
Yet have a vast sincere Respect for you.
Tipt me for New Year's Gift, a Piece of Gold,
It was a Jacobus, I with Pleasure took it,
A welcome Stranger to a Poet's Pockets,
57
The more I look'd, I lov'd, and thus did speak,
O Royal James, a Century and more,
You've tane your Tour, around the British Shore
Yet scarcely I e'r I saw your Face before.
Misers and sordid Souls you often see,
But turn your Back on generous Men like me,
My Heart's not glu'd unto your shining Brow,
Yet have a vast sincere Respect for you.
Strange Fancies rose, me Thought the Man of Gold,
Open'd his Mouth and strange Adventures told;
When minted unto, being I in Haste,
The King upon my Back, his Arms on my Breast,
Was from the Tower to the Exchequer sent,
There with five hundred more to spend-thrift Courtier lent,
Who had a Wife, but gave me to his Miss;
So I was lumbar'd for a stollen Kiss,
With me she bought, finding her Flesh grow frail,
Washes to mend her Face, and Pills to cure her Tail,
The Surgeon Popish, gave me to a Priest,
For Liberty on Ember Weeks to Feast,
Who hated this heroick Face of mine,
And chang'd me for good Christian Cath'lick Wine;
One Night the Vintner's Daughter stole the Key,
Which lock'd up fifty Jacobites like me.
Dissenting Priests got five on Sermon Days,
And all the rest did Purchase P---s and Plays.
A Scots recruiting Officer got me,
Who brought me down to Edinburgh by Sea.
Mortally drunk dropt me beneath his Bed:
There I the Space of twenty Years lay hid;
At last was driven round the Room by Rats;
Whilst all the House were hunting them like Cats,
The Mistress gript me from my Vermine Foes,
And thirteen Years lodg'd me in her Pose,
Her Heir could not two Days, his Vices smother,
But buried me a Night before his Mother;
My Funeral Place was in Pandora's Box,
Where Fools do purchase Pleasure with a Pox.
Open'd his Mouth and strange Adventures told;
When minted unto, being I in Haste,
The King upon my Back, his Arms on my Breast,
Was from the Tower to the Exchequer sent,
There with five hundred more to spend-thrift Courtier lent,
Who had a Wife, but gave me to his Miss;
So I was lumbar'd for a stollen Kiss,
With me she bought, finding her Flesh grow frail,
Washes to mend her Face, and Pills to cure her Tail,
The Surgeon Popish, gave me to a Priest,
For Liberty on Ember Weeks to Feast,
Who hated this heroick Face of mine,
And chang'd me for good Christian Cath'lick Wine;
One Night the Vintner's Daughter stole the Key,
Which lock'd up fifty Jacobites like me.
Dissenting Priests got five on Sermon Days,
And all the rest did Purchase P---s and Plays.
A Scots recruiting Officer got me,
Who brought me down to Edinburgh by Sea.
58
There I the Space of twenty Years lay hid;
At last was driven round the Room by Rats;
Whilst all the House were hunting them like Cats,
The Mistress gript me from my Vermine Foes,
And thirteen Years lodg'd me in her Pose,
Her Heir could not two Days, his Vices smother,
But buried me a Night before his Mother;
My Funeral Place was in Pandora's Box,
Where Fools do purchase Pleasure with a Pox.
Next I'm imploy'd to fight against the Crown,
Pay'd round Heads for to pull the Sovereign down,
Did covenanted Hypocrites become,
I bore the Monarch's Arms, yet beat the Rebels Drum;
John Braidshaw gave me to the Ruffian Rogue,
Cut off the Royal Charles Head Incog.
Pay'd round Heads for to pull the Sovereign down,
Did covenanted Hypocrites become,
I bore the Monarch's Arms, yet beat the Rebels Drum;
John Braidshaw gave me to the Ruffian Rogue,
Cut off the Royal Charles Head Incog.
Thereafter I continued Rebel Coin,
Prest Soldiers 'gainst my Master at the Boyne:
Twice given in Bribes for Parliamentary Votes,
And twice as oft to circumveen the Scots,
Since to a Midewife who her Trust betray'd,
To pass a pregnant Woman for a Maid;
A Jew who dealt in Fish got me for Ling,
To mock the Christian Law he circumcis'd my ring,
Ten Times to Robin Forbes the Kirk Tool,
To save gross Sinners from repenting-Stool.
Prest Soldiers 'gainst my Master at the Boyne:
Twice given in Bribes for Parliamentary Votes,
And twice as oft to circumveen the Scots,
Since to a Midewife who her Trust betray'd,
To pass a pregnant Woman for a Maid;
A Jew who dealt in Fish got me for Ling,
To mock the Christian Law he circumcis'd my ring,
Ten Times to Robin Forbes the Kirk Tool,
To save gross Sinners from repenting-Stool.
A Lady dropt me once in Quakers Yards,
With some few Shillings and a pack of Cards,
Will Millar finding me, said with sour Looks,
Friend, James, you ly beside ungracious Books;
The Spirit bids me own thee for a Brother,
But the prophane and Satan takes the other,
A Poet had me for a Bridal Song,
But drunk so fast, he did not keep me long,
He lest me with Ale-drapper in few Days;
And then he liv'd on Ryme and Roundelays.
The frugal Woman gave me to your Aunt,
To clear the remnant of a half Years Rent;
You have got me with her Blessing this new Year;
But will not keep me to it's last I fear,
I need not ask, when that you part with me,
To write, for you will weep my Elegie.
With some few Shillings and a pack of Cards,
Will Millar finding me, said with sour Looks,
Friend, James, you ly beside ungracious Books;
59
But the prophane and Satan takes the other,
A Poet had me for a Bridal Song,
But drunk so fast, he did not keep me long,
He lest me with Ale-drapper in few Days;
And then he liv'd on Ryme and Roundelays.
The frugal Woman gave me to your Aunt,
To clear the remnant of a half Years Rent;
You have got me with her Blessing this new Year;
But will not keep me to it's last I fear,
I need not ask, when that you part with me,
To write, for you will weep my Elegie.
You Rogue, quoth I, shall be no longer mine,
I'll melt your Golden Cheeks in purple Wine;
Yet when you're gone, what will become of me;
For wicked, as thou art, all Men are fond of thee.
I'll melt your Golden Cheeks in purple Wine;
Yet when you're gone, what will become of me;
For wicked, as thou art, all Men are fond of thee.
Mr. Pennecuik coming by a Tavern in the Country, some Gentlemen seeing him pass by, call'd him, and offered him a Bowl of Punch-Royal which held six Pints, if he would make an Inscription on Captain Philip Lokhart's Effigies that was in the Room, which was perform'd by both Parties, which is as follows.
Was Shot at Preston for the R---l Cause,By an U---s Sanguinary Laws,
60
And spotless L---y was all their Crime;
The Book of M---s shall Record their Names,
Faithful to Scotia, and to R---l J---s:
Two Sons of Belial, Carpenter and Wills,
In breaking your Parole you damn'd your English Souls.
An Epistle to a Highland Judge, from whom a lewd Woman stole a considerable Sum.
'Twas very fair, and far from being Trick,
To purge your Pocket, when she purg'd your P---k,
She acted like a Saint and not a Jilt,
When ye contracted Sin, she purg'd your Gilt.
Ye Infeft her in your Body, and she knew,
Your Purse as well as P---k, was Pendicle of you;
And since her Charter had receiv'd your Seal,
She was Proprietrix, so could not Steal.
To purge your Pocket, when she purg'd your P---k,
She acted like a Saint and not a Jilt,
When ye contracted Sin, she purg'd your Gilt.
Ye Infeft her in your Body, and she knew,
Your Purse as well as P---k, was Pendicle of you;
And since her Charter had receiv'd your Seal,
She was Proprietrix, so could not Steal.
Pray do not call fair Traders Thieves and Whores,
When ye was in her Spung, should she not be in yours,
The Woman had a prudent ART of Shifting,
A very honest Way, which Highland Folk call Lifting.
The Law had fix'd no Prices on her Trade,
But now there is a plain Decision made;
When her next Lover comes and lays her down,
Perhaps he'll bluntly tip her half a Crown:
But she will gravely whisper in his Ears,
My Price is Sixty Pound; for that's the Sheriff's Fiar.
You miss'd your Money, and you cry'd God sink her
She left me poor and Pox'd, and then he kick'd the Blinker:
Down rapt a Candlestick and Pewter Plate,
And poor Monoculus was all Defeat.
Some People said, who overheard the Sport,
Is this the Way to fence a Sheriff Court.
When ye was in her Spung, should she not be in yours,
The Woman had a prudent ART of Shifting,
A very honest Way, which Highland Folk call Lifting.
The Law had fix'd no Prices on her Trade,
But now there is a plain Decision made;
When her next Lover comes and lays her down,
Perhaps he'll bluntly tip her half a Crown:
But she will gravely whisper in his Ears,
My Price is Sixty Pound; for that's the Sheriff's Fiar.
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She left me poor and Pox'd, and then he kick'd the Blinker:
Down rapt a Candlestick and Pewter Plate,
And poor Monoculus was all Defeat.
Some People said, who overheard the Sport,
Is this the Way to fence a Sheriff Court.
At last came in the Constable and Guard,
And sly Rob Forbes, for to squeeze the Laird;
Says, ‘May it please your Honour, now to draw,
‘I represent the Kirk, your Honour knows the Law:
‘But did you ever know a Trade like ours;
‘We Servants of the Kirk live all by common Whores.
Whilst you prepare to lay the Talents down,
The D---l was in your Purse, and all the Angels flown.
And sly Rob Forbes, for to squeeze the Laird;
Says, ‘May it please your Honour, now to draw,
‘I represent the Kirk, your Honour knows the Law:
‘But did you ever know a Trade like ours;
‘We Servants of the Kirk live all by common Whores.
Whilst you prepare to lay the Talents down,
The D---l was in your Purse, and all the Angels flown.
Go on grave Judge, thou holy Highland Saint,
Fit Tool to serve a godly GOVERNMENT.
Fit Tool to serve a godly GOVERNMENT.
A Poem on WILL and MEG.
Since Will and Meg are married,And we're come here to Dine;
How comes there's neither Sport, nor Play,
At such a joyful Time:
If ever Musick lawful was,
It's on a Wedding-day,
Come call the Minstrell, and the Maid,
Let them go Dance and Play,
Our Dadys danc'd ere we were born,
So did our Minnys too,
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But by the Whiggish Crew:
Mess John sorbad all dancing here,
I grant it's very true;
But I have known him hear a Tune,
And Pay the Fidler too;
Religion Joy and Mirth allows,
And Heaven is Melody:
But sullen Looks, and gloomy Brows
Suit Hell and Presbytery.
On the 29th January G--- I. done by Lady Cranston.
At Cana once Heaven's Lord was pleas'd,Amongst blyth Bridal Folks to dine,
And then, to crown that happy Feast,
Turn'd Jars of Water into Wine,
But when for Joy of B---k's Birth,
Our Tribunes mounted the Theatre,
Heavens would not Countenance their Mirth,
But turn'd their Claret into Water.
The Character of a GAUGER.
A Gauger, never can be call'd a Fool,
Since he doth all his Actions by the Rule,
And yet his Judgment, must be short abiding,
Because his Rule, is very often sliding;
By Drinking Ale, he needs not be undone,
Who gratis ev'ry Day, hath Access to a Tun,
May Brandy drink, so long as he can stand,
Who always hath a Cooler near at Hand;
He's bound by Law to break the Sabbath Day,
And either forfeit Grace or forfeit Pay;
Since he doth all his Actions by the Rule,
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Because his Rule, is very often sliding;
By Drinking Ale, he needs not be undone,
Who gratis ev'ry Day, hath Access to a Tun,
May Brandy drink, so long as he can stand,
Who always hath a Cooler near at Hand;
He's bound by Law to break the Sabbath Day,
And either forfeit Grace or forfeit Pay;
A Gauger, is a strange surprizing Creature,
A greater Paradox, is scarce in Nature,
The more he gains, the less he hath to spare,
He's always busy, and he's always bare.
An Officer the Gauger calls himself,
A noble Guardian of the Common-wealth,
'Tis true, that his Commission's very broad,
But his Artillery, is somewhat odd,
His Pens, his Pick, an English Yard his sword,
Charges with Paper Guns, and in a Word,
He neither deals in Powder, nor in Lead,
And yet effectually he makes us Bleed:
He exercises, ev'ry Night and Day,
And his reward, is Dutch Lieutenants Pay,
But ah, such Treatment, is not to be born!
Pierces the Breast of Sir John Barley-corn,
'Tis true, Sir John hath Crimes, cannot be hid,
Moe Men hath slain, than e're Prince Eugene did;
Tho' fome by him, are ev'ry Day cut down,
He never gets Remission from the Crown.
A greater Paradox, is scarce in Nature,
The more he gains, the less he hath to spare,
He's always busy, and he's always bare.
An Officer the Gauger calls himself,
A noble Guardian of the Common-wealth,
'Tis true, that his Commission's very broad,
But his Artillery, is somewhat odd,
His Pens, his Pick, an English Yard his sword,
Charges with Paper Guns, and in a Word,
He neither deals in Powder, nor in Lead,
And yet effectually he makes us Bleed:
He exercises, ev'ry Night and Day,
And his reward, is Dutch Lieutenants Pay,
But ah, such Treatment, is not to be born!
Pierces the Breast of Sir John Barley-corn,
'Tis true, Sir John hath Crimes, cannot be hid,
Moe Men hath slain, than e're Prince Eugene did;
Tho' fome by him, are ev'ry Day cut down,
He never gets Remission from the Crown.
Five hum drum Tyrants, hold a martial Court,
Daily to hear the General report,
How his Subalterans manage their Affair,
Who keeps and breakes the Articles of War,
Whilst the poor People, are made sordid Slaves,
And sink beneath, the Tyranny of Knaves.
Daily to hear the General report,
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Who keeps and breakes the Articles of War,
Whilst the poor People, are made sordid Slaves,
And sink beneath, the Tyranny of Knaves.
A Cliver Poem made in the Canongate Guard-house, at the Request of several Officers, apprehending Mr. Pennecuik going Home to his Quarters being late.
In
Anna's Days, when all was Sold,
And Merit Starv'd, who wanted ready Gold,
A raw Mou'd Lad, just from his Mamma bred,
Who knew as well as Nurse, the Fighting Trade,
Who never saw Spear unless a Speet,
Who never drew cold Iron save at Meat,
Purchast a Sash to make the Monkey Proud,
Who trembled, when he seed it look like Blood.
And Merit Starv'd, who wanted ready Gold,
A raw Mou'd Lad, just from his Mamma bred,
Who knew as well as Nurse, the Fighting Trade,
Who never saw Spear unless a Speet,
Who never drew cold Iron save at Meat,
Purchast a Sash to make the Monkey Proud,
Who trembled, when he seed it look like Blood.
To be continued.
| Merchant | |