University of Virginia Library

SCOTS POEMS, &c.

MERRY TALES For the lang Nights of Winter.

In Dialogues betwixt the Tinklarian Doctor and his Grandam, &c.

TINKLARIAN DOCTOR.
On a winter's night, my gran'am spinning,
To make a web of good Scots linen;
Her stool being plac'd next to the chimley;
For she was auld, and saw right dimly:
My lucky-dad, an honest Whig,
Was telling tales of Bothwel-brig;
He could not miss to mind th'attempt,
For he was sitting peeling hemp.
My aunt, whom nane dare say has no grace,
Was reading on the Pilgrim's Progress;
The meikle tasker, Davie Dallas,
Was telling blads of William Wallace:
My mither bade her second son say,
What he'ad by heart of Davie Lindsay.
Our herd, whom all folks hate that know him,
Was busy hunting in his bosom,
'Till, being tir'd with twa hours scratching,
He fell at length to quick dispatching;
Ne'er Roman slew so many Grecians,
As he did of his blood relations;
Nor did he think it was a sin,
To be the dead of all his kin.
The bairns and oes were all within doors,
The youngest of us chewing cynders,
And all the auld anes telling wonders.
I'll tell you mine, you ne'er heard droller,
'Tis meikle worth to be a scholar.
I've seen you where you never was,
And where you ne'er will be;
But yet within that very place,
You shall be seen by me

GRANDAM.
Na, that dings all; but 'tis a fiction,
A plain and perfect contradiction;
You'll see me where I ne'er will be,
I never heard a greater lie.

TINK. DOCTOR.
Gran'am, look up unto the glass,
And there you'll see your wrinkled face.

GRANDAM.
I vow, I'd rather giv'n ten dollars,
Before I had not bred you scholars.
I love to hear your sweet debating,
With ane word Scots, the other Latin;
There's nane of all the bairn-time stupid,
Their beards may all wag in the pulpit:
E'en Sandy, if to next year spar'd,
May be a chaplain to a laird.
But, hear me Willie; ye're the eldest,
I ken you can a story tell best;
With all your clergy tell the wonder,
I cannot, tho' I'm near an hunder,
Why my teeth, younger than my tongue,
Hard as a stane or well dry'd rung,
Should moulder like a rotten liver,
Yet my soft tongue continue clever?
Or why shoe-soles so soon decay,
In less than six months quite away,
Yet my thin hide should never wear,
Tho' daily worn this ninety year?
Or, tell me, if you ken the matter,
Why ale, being thicker far than water,
Should in my throat get easy downfal,
But water choaks me; were't a spoonful?

TINK. DOCTOR.
Grandam, I'll answer all your wonders,
Beginning at the first, your grinders;
Must not that wear which ne'er lies still,
Ay grinding like the Canno-mill;
You're just a mill, your mouth's the happer,
Your teeth the mill-stanes, tongue the clapper;
Ye ken the clapper is but thin,
And, like your tongue, ay making din;
Yet it will wear out twenty mill-stanes,
Tho' they are kent not to be ill stanes,
As to the second, you'd consider,
That beasts have different kinds of leather;
Shoe-soles from dead-beasts they do flae,
But ye are living, lang be't sae.
As to the last, 'bout ale and water,
Ale gangs down, 'cause you like it better.

GRANDAM.
The last's the truest of the three,
The shame a word of that's a lie.

TINK. DOCTOR.
Gran'am, I've answer'd all your questions,
Give's a tale, ane of your best anes.

GRANDAM.
I'll tell you a tale,—In the days of Cromwell,
When Charles the first from the throne did tumble;
I was about fourteen years and an half old,
When the rogues took his head aff on a scaffold:
We were very ill-fash'd with the English land-loupers,
And the hail country was o'er-run with moss troopers;
I went out upon a night with my sister Jean,
I mind very well 'twas on Valentine's-e'en;
We'd been drawing our valentines, I drew John Strang,
He had a base property, 'twas scyre wrang;
Red hair'd, dish brow'd,
Bladder lipped, meikle mow'd,
We met with my auld jo Geordie Brown,
He liv'd, when he was living, in th'Overtown,
His face was big and fair like a fu' moon;
He had on a suit with prince's metal button,
His twa hands were like twa hind legs of mutton;
I'm sure it was not with eating, he was nae glutton.
His legs mens'd all the parish at kirk and market,
He said to me, 'tis bawdy, I had best hark it;
Lend me your lug, Giles, and I'll round it in,
Now for your life, limmer, offer to tell't again:
But we were cry'd back on, by my sister Mary,
So Geordie and we fell to play at blind Hary.
Geordie gigled and leugh ay, when I was ta'en,
And the place he gript me by, was the wame;
But the farmers coming in to bir{n} their placks,
We left the drunken carles to their own cracks,
We went to the barnyard and play'd bogle about the stacks.
When I was wearied with hiding, and he with pursuing,
We sat down at a haystack, and fell close to the wooing;
He slaver'd all my lips, and turn'd very uncivil,
He thrust up his hand the length of my navel;
I gar'd all the folk hear me, and cry'd out like a devil.
The de'il take me, quoth I, blessing myself, if I be your lown,
Sae tell me, are you in mows or earnest, Geordie Brown?
I'm in earnest, quo' Geordie, 'tis better nor cracking,
Make nae noise, Bessie, 'tis ay good to be taking;
But out came my mither with a rock in her bosom,
She gave him his paiks, and soundly did toss him.
He took to his heels and scour'd thro' the green,
So I'll never forget that Valentine's e'en.

TINK. DOCTOR.
Gran'am, I'm ay fear'd you've been an auld sinner,
You love a bawdy tale, as I do my dinner.
I'll tell you a tale should not be forgotten,
The wife I'm speaking of is both dead and rotten:
An honest Cameronian near the Bow-head,
She was sae very afflicted when her husband was dead,
Ev'ning and morning she went to the Gray-friars;
(If this be not true, many ane's liars).
It happen'd anes as she went there to mourn,
But first she behoved to make her burn;
And hunk'ring down upon the cauld grass,
A thistle on the grave jagged her arse,
She thought her buttocks were touch'd by old cuff,
Thrusting his hand up thro' the turf;
She ran away crying, five times or six,
Dead or alive you mind your auld tricks.

MAUSE.

Little JAMIE.
Gran'am, give me a pair of new breiks,
And I'll tell you some things will gar you rive your cheeks.

GRANDAM.
Blessings upon the wean, hear how he speaks,
My dear, ye'll not want it, if I should buy them with straiks.

Little JAMIE.
'Twas auld lang syne, in an hamely converse,
A Scotsman bade the king and court his a---se.

GRANDAM.
Mislear'd fallow, the meikle devil speed him,
I'm sure the king wad gar hang him; or head him.

Little JAMIE.
Indeed he did neither, but thought him a fit tool,
To be carry'd to court, and made the king's fool.

GRANDAM.
They turn all fools goes there, Jamie, that's nae lie,
Our laird spends his siller there ilka bawbie;
He had anes a bra' fortune, its a' gaue to wrack;
For London's a place that herries the pack;
I believe, this day he's not worth five and a plack.
The lords and lairds that gae up fae fast thither,
Are just like the bairns that forget their auld mither;
And like the northland folk, that come from beyond Tay,
To return back again they seldom find the way:
They say our laird's ta'en up about state affairs,
Shame fa' that wark, makes many poor heirs.

Little JAMIE.
Let us who stay at hame, study to be thrivers,
And we'll turn lairds, when the lairds turn dyvers:
But Gran'am, let me tell out my bra' sport,
How the man spake to the king and his court;
'Twas king James the sixth, when he rang twenty years
King of England, and then came down with his peers,
To visit Scotland, where he got his being,
The kings sinsyne think we're not worth their seeing,
King George wadna come if it wad save us frae dying;
For these English cuckolds, who would cut our throats,
Gar the honest man turn his back on the Scots:
I love ay that minister, he was an honest gentleman,
Who said ance in a preaching, the devil was an Englishman;
And by the reason he gave, it's very true indeed,
When scholars raise the devil, he has horns on his head.
But to return to my tale, the king and his dunnawassels,
Came to so see the Scots gentry and all his vassals;
As he lodg'd on the road, where they sauld brandy and ale,
And the king was turn'd canty with the other gill;
He asked the landlord, how long he'd liv'd there:
The man answered, five hundred years and mair,
I and my predecessors, tho' you may think it a base lie,
'Tis as true as ony thing in the black book of Paisley.
Do you ken, said the king, wha was your chief,
He was hang'd, quo' the man, on the gallows of Crieff,
Waes me, quo' the king, it seems he's been a thief.
Indeed I'm sure he was nae that, quo' the other,
But king David gart hang baith him and his brother.
What was the crimes they dy'd for, said king James,
May be they were rebels, what was their names?
Indeed, answer'd the man, they were not baptiz'd,
But just took to themselves what names they pleas'd;
For the sign of the cross, us'd then by popish fallows,
Look'd as if the bairns were to die on the gallows:
But for the good of Scotland, they gat aft sair banes;
The name of the eldest was, Praise-god Bair-banes:
The second brother's name, who was a laird in the Merse,
Was, an't please your majesty, Kiss-my-a---se:
Bare-banes came to be treasurer, by which he wan siller,
And for two years together, Kiss-my-a---se chancellor;
But thereafter Bare-banes was chancellor, for he was a cunning spark,
And Kiss-my-a---se was twice justice clerk:
Yet falling some way thereafter under the king's anger,
They kend they wad be hang'd, if they stay'd ony langer;
Sae they travell'd in disguise, that they might not be kend,
And turn'd baith of them trencher-makers to their life's end:
They travell'd with tinkers and gypsies, thro' mony man's ground:
Bare banes made his four nooked, Kiss-my-a---se's were all round.

GRANDAM.
Sirs, heard you e'er a bairn speak sae in his age,
He'll be the tinklarian all o'er, I see by his visage,
Who is well kend to be the prettiest man in this age.

Inscription in the Carters Hall in Leith.

Great God, whose potent arm does drive the sun,
Thee 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 sanctify their charity.
Thy blessing, Lord, be its foundation-stone,
And they'll ascribe the praise to thee alone.

The Self-tormentor.

There is a wretch, the greatest wretch alive,
Eager for gold, yet wants the art to thrive.
This devil of a man, with magic 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 chuse 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.

The Pretended Town-cryer.

All you that in your beds do lie,
Turn wame to wame and occupy;
And when that you have done your best,
Turn back to back and take your rest.
Good morrow my masters all.

The Lost Maidenhead.

On the 28th May, G. I.

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,
Heaven would not countenance their mirth,
But turn'd their claret into water.

The Presbyterian Pope.

Kirk Treasurer.
Dawty, how goes the honest trade?
Waesucks to see you sae ill clad,
I kend whan ye was right well fed,
Look'd fat and fair;
At which my heart was unco glad,
But now 'tis sair.
I dow na bide to see you traiked,
Wi' bachel'd shoon, and a---se half naked,
As if the very streets you raked,
Wi' skin sae blae,
The daft young lairds should a' be paiked,
That lets't be sae.
Nae body hears us; tell me, Meg,
Wi' wham ye lifted last your leg,
For ilk ane kens ye manna beg,
Though stocks be low;
Now tell the truth and dinna' fleg,
Was't wi' a beau?
Anes a' your customers I kend;
For then you made a bonny send,
And wrought sae close wi' your daft end,
Baith day and night,
Ye ay had boddles for to spend,
And that was right.

Meg.
Sin' you came on, my trade's been dead,
How can young lasses get their bread!
Ah! John, the d---'s in your greed,
You grip at a',
I think my very heart will bleed,
I'll break my ga'.
I canna' get salt to my kail,
Though anes I tauld a bonny tale.
For twenty shillings, as dock-mail,
Each night I got,
But now, since trade began to fail,
Scarce win a groat.
For should I walk to Abbey yards,
To catch bra' officers and lairds,
Invite them in to play at cards,
And drink and crack,
Behold a party of the guards
Is at our back.
Beadles will harle me by the gown,
A warld's wonder through the town,
Shop keepers wives cry there's a lown,
Halloo the bawd,
Me to correction-house send down,
And put me mad.
The fowk before that had your place,
Wad pity'd me in sic a case;
They never pat me to disgrace
To make sic trips,
My bennison light on their face,
We ran ay snips.
They kend 'twas me that fill'd their banks,
And kindly said, Meg, play your pranks
Wi' married fowk, we'll gi' you thanks,
Fa' close to wark;
Ha'e, there's silk stockings to your shanks,
And a new sark.
Indeed I manna' do them wrang,
John Couper was their aid-de-cang.
Aft on the streets wi' me did gang,
He kend his craft,
That makes his purse the day sae strang,
And puts him daft.
Mony kirk-treas'rer I've made rich,
I learn'd my art to sic a pitch,
They ca'd me ay their setting b---h;
Well did I set
Covies of lairds; syne, in a touch,
John drew his net:
Scarcely was I thrown on the bed
Whan John pap'd in his bogle head,
Said, gentles, there is nae remead,
I'm very sure;
Guard, carry these folks aff wi' speed,
And that vile whore.
Fy on ye, sirs, to lead sic lives,
Ye that have dainty bairns and wives,
'Twere an alms-deed to cut wi' knives
Your gear awa';
'Tis fowk like you that never thrives,
Fy on you a'.
Yet, if you promise to turn better,
I'll not affront you for the matter,
To the kirk-treasurer write a letter,
Come in his will;
Lay down the talents, or be debtor,
By band or bill.

K. Treas.
Na', Meg, you're e'en worth gowd, I vow,
We canna want the like of you,
Serve me that way, and ye's no rue,
But mense your kin,
Slip in to company that's fou,
And tempt to sin.
I'll mind you in my pray'rs, we should
Wish well to them that do us good,
I hope by you to get my food,
I need not fear't;
My bird, ha'e there's a bra' new hood,
Well may you wear't.
Meg, you that make a trade of sinning,
Shou'd ay be cleanly in your linen,
And trip as trig as ony kinnin;
Why should ye droop?
Ye've got a better trade than spinning,
E'en buy a hoop.
'Twas a raw sinner at the game,
(For at the first ye a' think shame)
Contriv'd them for to hide her wame,
Whan it grew big,
I winna' tell the lady's name,
She was a W---g.
Now, shou'd not this keep up your heart,
That quality do take your part,
That they shou'd study ev'ry art
Practis'd by you?
Gae 'bout your business, and look smart,
Ye's find me true.

Meg.
There's some fowk wou'd there manhood try,
And with a pretty young wench ly,
For that end would a licence buy,
And have your leave,
And that's the thing you'll no deny,
As I believe.
Master, be pleas'd to take a fee,
And frae the creepie make them free,
What profit is't to you or me,
To spoil their sport?

K. Treas.
Meg, bring them here, and we'll agree,
There's my word for't.

Meg.
My master's as great as the pope;
(Papist rogue, gi'e him a rope)
He keeps a Presbyterian shop,
Pardons to sell,
And he'll turn wond'rous rich I hope,
He's turn'd sae fell.
Popes shut up nuns with iron-gates,
And will not let them do fine feats,
But our kind master, father Y---s.
Dawts his ain bawds,
As if they were his bairns, and lets
Them play wi' lads.
The nuns are burnt that play wi' fryars,
Or else there mony ane that's liars,
But the kirk-treas'rer never spiers,
He's nae sae rash,
Wi' wham we ly for twenty years,
If he get cash.
Incest, or ony other sin,
We may commit wi' nearest kin,
And yet come aff wi' a hail skin,
'Tis his behoof,
Wi' fowk not to make meikle din,
That criesh his loof,
But, if we have nae thing to spare,
Then we maun rin wi' shoulders bare,
Dalgliesh's tause makes us sae sair,
That they flae us,
Thrawn carle! I'm sure he wad na care
For to slae us.

K. Treas.
Meg, we stay on but for a year,
If in that time we get na' gear,
We'll e'en starve when we're auld, I fear,
Be hungry slaves;
To speak the truth, and not to jeer,
We're e'en a' knaves.

Meg.
Master, the greater knave the better,
The only way for to rise greater,
For honesty will scarce hald water,
A tale hum drum,
If money's got, what d---l's the matter
What way it come?
I laugh to see the fowk look blate,
Wha pay and get na a receipt,
Ye neither set down day nor date,
'Tis a bra' sport,
An honest piece of deep deceit;
Fair fa' you for't.

K. Treas.
Na hussy, should I grant them lines,
And tell how much I got for fines,
'Twad gar me count with our divines,
I'm very sure;
Shame fa' the treas'rer never minds
To help the poor.
Judas, wha was kirk-treas'rer first,
For cheating of the kirk, was curst,
He hang'd himself, and syne he burst,
For ae poor faut,
Had he in a' our tricks been nurs'd,
He'd ne'er done that.
Tho' we the kirk do daily plunder,
Cheating her out of mony a hunder,
If we hang ourselves, 'twill be a wonder
As e'er was heard;
We'll ne'er commit sae foul a blunder,
Na, dinna fear't.
The Highland-men for cutting purse,
Lifting Lawland cows and horse,
Sometimes, though seldom, take remorse,
And they're disgrac'd;
But we kirk-treas'rers that do worse,
Are not strait-lac'd.

Meg.
Master, your pensionary's gane;
Ye ken your awn lass Waterstane,
Wae's me the silly slut was ta'en,
The best o' lowns,
Because she wad na ly her lane,
But wi' dragoons.

K. Treas.
Meg, Meg, ill news, that she is lost!
I fear she will gi' up the ghost;
But wha think ye shall fill her post?
Gae through the town,
Wyle well, my jo, whate'er it cost,
There's half a crown.

Meg.
I ken a chuck of cliver sense,
The jade was bred wi' luckie Spence,
And new laid to when she went hence,
That was nae fool,
Well did she learn the art to fence,
At her sweet school.
My winsome dad, nae body's near us,
Sae wha in a' the warld can hear us,
Make acts wi' penalties to fear us,
And keep's in awe,
And upon saul and conscience swear us
To keep them a'.
Taylors and websters ne'er were leel,
Yet for the good of common weal,
To gi'e his due e'en to the de'il,
They've seal o'cause,
And deacon too, to gar them feel
The weight of laws.
At Rotterdam the hogan pow'rs,
(And that's a whiggish town like ours)
The lowns in public stews secures;
The Dutch are wise,
And put placards upon the doors
To tell their price.
The auldest trade that's in the nation,
Amaist as auld as the creation,
Shou'd be made an incorporation,
I'm no in joke,
That we may trade wi' reputation,
Like burger fowk.

K. Treas.
It may be done, Meg, say nae mair,
I'm deacon, and I'll take the chair,
For clerk we'll hae the wyle of ware,
Auld L---n;
Rob Forbes shall be officer,
As good's in town.

Meg.
Then let us think upon a way,
Or else fair trade will soon decay,
To gar the Glasgow women stay
Without our port;
They come sae thick in every day
They spoil our sport.
Hame at their awn town let them bide,
D---l nor they were a' drown'd in Clyde;
A man can purchase their backside,
For poor twa groats,
And drink of that wi' them beside,
Aught shillin' Scots.
Wi' bibles and psalm books they cant,
As ilk ane of them were a saint,
Wi' holy keckle, pegh and pant,
And greet and grain,
That ev'ry godly Bow head plant,
Gaes now to them.
Repeating lectures, sermons, graces,
Telling saul-exercise and cases,
And making sic Wast-country faces,
That I sair fear,
That we may a' resign our places,
If they thrang here.

K. Treas.
Ye're scyre-wrang, Meg; for wi' their greeting,
And notes of Mr Clark's repeating,
And mony scripture texts ay citing,
And singing psalms;
Neighbour's think 'tis a holy meeting
Of God's ain lambs.
Your tory lowns are worst to guide,
They cannot their ain secret hide;
Whane'er they lay their legs aside,
Or drink to James,
They blaze what's done baith far and wide,
And tell fowks names.
If ye wad paukily succeed,
Prove a rank hypocrite indeed,
Subscirbe to the kirk treas'rer's creed,
And ye'll win cash,
Let honesty ne'er fash your head,
'Tis tory trash.

The Kirk-Treasurer's Creed.

I do believe 'tis in my pow'r,
T'indulge and tolerate a whore,
For liberty of conscience sure,
The kirk-can gi'e:
And by my office I procure
That right to me.
Now, Meg, you see that I'm high priest,
And the Pope's power is a dull jest,
Whan sinners have my loof well criesht,
Wi' a good fee,
I'll let them sin, they make me feast,
And baith agree.

The Cameronian Tooth.

Rome's Legacy to the Kirk of Scotland; A Satyr on the Stool of Repentance.

The Stablers Honours.

✗
I. H. S.

The Gardeners Honours.

Elegy on ROBERT FORBES.

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

HIS EPITAPH.

Here all alone,
Beneath this stone,
Our rare reformer bides;
Who pick'd up crowns
By tirling lowns,
He scarcely left their hides.
Ask not at all,
Where went his saul?
The question's scarcely civil;
Since 'tis well kend,
Ill life must end
In going to the devil.

On the Downfal of Thomas Butter's Nose in the Month of June.

Tom was sae subtile, and sae fu' o'greed,
Nae man could lick the butter aff his bread;
But pox on harlot women, his disgrace,
They lick'd a nose of butter aff his face.
It did na' take lang time to this mishap,
No, no, the bitches did it in a Clap.
Who devil took this nose that came away?
Not God!—for he made noses all of clay;
And clay grows harder by the summer sun;
But Butter-noses must melt down in June.

On the Sign of the Three Kings.

Long have we had two kings, I do assure ye,
A George de facto, and a James de jure:
But here's surprising news; a brave M'Ghie
Turns parliament himself, and gives us three:
None of them all resemble George or James.
O, King Creator! will you tell their names?
We do not know by gazing on their face,
If Norman, German, or Fergusian race:
Yet, when we think upon't, we learn the story;
The sign speaks truth by way of allegory.
Three kings expos'd to sale! ye've plac'd them there
To show we Scots sell kings like merchant-ware.
Three kings were basely sold for English coin,
One at Dunbar, another at the Boyn;
The third at Sheriff-muir, a fatal day,
When Mar mar'd all, and Huntly ran away.
Buy up the rogues that sold our antient nation;
You'll have the best stock'd shop in all the nation;
And when 'tis known such hellish wares you sell,
The d---l will pay the price, and take them all to hell.

A Poem on the Sign of the Mermaid.

Geordie.
Wha's dainty bairn are ye, my winsome dear,
With apple cheeks, and wame like ony pear?

Jamie.
May be 'tis nae good manners for to speir.

Geo.
And bony bubbies, wi' your nut brown hair,
And a' your sides, and a' your shoulders bare:
War ye some aulder ye'd be worth a pelt.

Jam.
Ah! Geordie man, she's fish beneath the belt:
She'll nae get leave to live, she's e'en sae frail,
The lads will suck her lips and eat her tail.

Geo.
Whish't billy, haith she'll put us in the guard,
'Tis no the first of twenty's been sae sair'd;
She wad na take sic treatment frae a laird.
I find she's ta'en the pet, she will na speak,
She's blushing now, glowr on her rosy cheek.

Jam.
Mistress, I beg your pardon wi' bare head,
We country folk are no like gentles bred.

Geo.
She's e'en the greatest ferly e'er I saw,
The d---l a leg has she, and we ha' twa;
I wonder how she gangs unto the kirk,
Or how she keeps her feet when it grows mirk!

Jam.
Feet! fiend a fit she has, but twa sweet hands
Whiter than curds, and tight like willy-wands;
They need nae feet that's carried in sedans;
Geordie, how she does pish I canna learn,
I'm sure she'll be an unco cleanly bairn.

Geo.
Daft gouk, great folks bairns is nae like ours,
Kakying their coats and clarting a' the doors:
They spit their tea and croudie at their mouth,
That gars them be of sic a feckless growth.
How she'll be got with bairn I marvel more,
Her belly's big enough, but wants a door:
Perhaps the dunnawassels hae nae bungs,
But like the doves they gender by the tongues.

Jam.
If they spew weans at their mouth like croudie,
I think they need na' fash to fetch the houdie.

Geo.
Ha ha, boy, I can tell you e'er I pish,
The thing that makes the lass's a---e a' fish;
Her minny and her dade have Papists been,
And got the fleshy part on Fasten's e'en;
And when the beef and a' the brose was spent,
They fed on fish and got the lass in lent.

Jam.
As I maun answer, Geordie, ye ding a',
Ye should na been a herd, but man o'law,
Farewel bra' bairn, I hae nae mair to say,
But when a' flesh rise at the judgment day,
Only the half of you will flie away.

Petition of the Shoemaker Apprentices.

Ye sons of old Crispin, a saint and a king,
When taking your bottle and eating your ling ,
All merrry like Greeks o'er a pint and a gill,
With the best of good fellows, honest old deacon Hill;
Remember that we are the same flesh and blood,
Tho' we have not a bit, and are chewing our cud;
For though we are young and raw-mouth'd beginners,
We may live like yourselves to be old rotten sinners;
On this solemn occasion when chusing our deacon,
You'll generous prove the apprentices reckon;
For on a feast day we resolve not to fast,
Tho' we should pawn our awl and venture our last;
When lads of the trade in company mingle,
Can they bend leather chew, or lick a cold lingle;
So we pray and expect, like kind hearted men,
You'll send us a hearty charity ben;
And we shall all pray, while our judgment abides,
May you never wear horns, and never want hides.

Lucky SPENCE's Last Advice.

Three times the carlin grain'd and rifted,
Then frae the cod her pow she lifted,
In bawdy policy well gifted,
When she now faun
That death nae longer wad be shifted,
She thus began:
My loving lasses I maun leave ye,
But dinnae wi' your greeting grieve me,
Nor wi' your draunts and droning deave me,
But bring's a gill;
For faith, my bairns, ye may believe me,
'Tis 'gainst my will.
O Black-ey'd Bess, and mim mou'd Meg,
O'er good to work or yet to beg,
Lay sunkets up for a sair leg,
For whan ye fail,
Your face will not be worth a feg,
Nor yet your tail.
Whane'er ye meet a fool that's fow,
That ye're a maiden gar him trow,
Seem nice, but stick to him like glew,
And whan set down,
Drive at the jango till he spew,
Syne he'll sleep soun.
When he's a-sleep, then dive and catch,
His ready cash, his rings or watch:
And gin he likes to light his match
At yor spunk-box,
Ne'er stand to let the fumbling wretch,
E'en tak the pox.
Cleek a' ye can by hook or crook,
Ripe ilka pouch frae nook to nook.
Be sure to truff his pocket book,
Saxty pound Scots
Is nae deaf nits: in little bouk
Lie great bank-notes,
To get amends of whinging fools,
That's frighted for repenting stools,
Wha aften when their metal cools,
Turn sweir to pay,
Gar the kirk-boxie heal the dools,
Anither day.
But dawt red-coats, and let them scoup
Free, for the fou of cutty-stoup;
To gie them up, ye need nae hope
E'er to do well;
They'll rive your brats and kick your doup,
And play the de'il.
There's ae sair cross attends the craft,
That curs'd Correction house, where aft
Vile Hangie's tauze your riggings saft
Makes black and blae,
Enough to put a body daft,
But what'll ye say?
Nane gathers gear withouten care,
Ilk pleasure has of pain a share;
Suppose then they should tirl ye bare,
And gar ye fike,
E'en learn to thole, 'tis very fair,
Ye're neibour-like.
Forby, my looves, count upo' losses;
Your milk-white teeth, and cheeks like roses,
Whan jet-black hair, and brigs of noses,
Fa' down wi' dads;
To keep your hearts up 'neath sic crosses,
Set up for bawds.
Wi' well criesh'd loofs I hae been canty,
Whane'er the lads wad fain hae faund ye;
To try the auld game Taunty Ranty,
Like cussers keen,
They took advice of me your aunty,
If ye were clean.
Then I took up my siller ca',
And whistl'd ben whiles ane, whiles twa;
Round in his lug, that there was a
Poor country Kate,
As halesome as the well of Spaw,
But unco blate.
Sae whane'er company came in,
And were upo' a merry pin,
I slade away wi' little din,
And muckle mense,
Left conscience judge, it was a' ane
To lucky Spence.
My bennison come on good doers,
Who spend their cash on bawds and whores;
May they ne'er want the wile of cures
For a sair snout;
Foul fa' the quacks wha that fire smoors
And puts nae out.
My malison light ilka day
On them that drink and dinna pay,
But tak a snack and rin away;
May't be their hap,
Never to want a gonnorhea,
Or rotten clap.
Lass, gi'e us in anither gill,
A mutchken, jo, let's tak our fill;
Let death syne registrate his bill,
Whan I want sense;
I'll slip awa' wi' better will,
Quo' Lucky Spence.

Elegy on Lucky WOOD in the Canon gate, May 1717.

Elegy on MAGGY JOHNSTON who died anno 1711.

Elegy on JOHN COUPER, Kirk-treasurer's Man, Anno 1714.

The Life and Acts of, or an Elegy on PATIE BIRNIE.

In soonet flee, the man I sing,
His rare engine in rhyme shall ring;
Who slaid the stick out o'er the string,
With sic an art;
Wha sang sae sweetly to the spring,
And rais'd the heart.
Kinghorn may rue the ruefu' day,
That lighted Patie to his clay,
Wha gart the hearty billies stay,
And spend their cash,
To see his snout, to hear him play,
And gab sae gash.
When strangers landed, wow sae thrang,
Fuffing and peghing he wad gang,
And crave their pardon that sae lang
He'd been a coming;
Syne his bread-winner out he'd bang,
And fa' to bumming.
Your honour's father dead and gane,
For him he first wad make his mane,
But soon his face cou'd make you fain,
When he did sough,
O wiltu, wiltu do't again!
And grain'd and leugh.
This sang he made frae his ain head,
And eke the auld man's mare she's dead,
The peats and turfs and a's to lead;
O fy upon her!
A bonny auld thing this indeed,
An't like your honour.
After ilk tune he took a soup,
And bann'd wi' vir the corky coup,
That to the Papists country scoup.
To lear ha' ha's!
Frae chiels that sing, hap, stap and loup,
Wanting the b---s.
That beardless capons are na men,
We by their fozie springs might ken!
But ours, he said, cou'd vigour len
To men o'weir,
And gar them stout to battle sten'
Withoutten fear.
How first he practis'd, ye shall hear;
The harn pan of an umquhile mare
He strung, and strack sounds fast and clear
Out o'the pow,
Which fir'd the saul, and gar'd the ear,
With gladness glow,
Sae some auld-gabbed poets tell,
Jove's nimble son and lackey snell,
Made the first fiddle of a shell;
On which Apollo,
With meikle pleasure play'd himsel,
Baith jig and solo.
O Johnny Stocks! What comes of thee?
I'm sure thoul't break thy heart and die,
Thy Birnie gane, thoul't never be
Nor blyth, nor able
To shake thy short houghs merrily,
Upon a table.
How pleasant was't to see thee diddle,
And dance sae finely to his fiddle,
With nose forgainst the lass's middle;
And briskly brag,
With cutty steps to ding their striddle,
And gar them fag?
He catch'd a crieshy webster lown,
At runkling of his deary's gown,
And wi' a rung came o'er his crown,
For being there;
But Starker's thrumbs got Patie down,
And knoos'd him sair.
Wae worth the dog, he maist ha' fell'd him,
Revengfu' Pate aft green'd to geld him,
He aw'd amends, and that he tell'd him,
And bann'd to do't,
He took the tid, and fairly fell'd him,
For a recruit.
Pate was a carle of canny sense;
And wanted ne'er a right bein spence,
But laid up dollars in defence
'Gainst eild and gout;
Well judging gear in future tense,
Cou'd stand for wit.
Yet prudent fowk may tak the pet;
Anes thrawart porter wad na let
Him in, while latter meat was het:
He gaw'd fu' sair,
Flang in his fiddle o'er the yate,
Whilk ne'er did mare.
But profit may arise frae loss,
Sae Pate gat comfort by his cross;
Soon as he wan within the close,
He dously drew in,
Mair gear frae ilka gentle goss,
Than bought a new ane.
When lying bedfast sick and sair,
To parish priest he promis'd fair,
He ne'er wad drink fu' ony mair;
But hale and tight,
He prov'd the auld man to a hair,
Strut ilka night.
The haly dad with care essays,
To wile him frae his wanton ways,
And tell'd him of his promise twice:
Pate answer'd clever,
“Wha tents what people raving says,
When in a fever?”
At Bothwell-brig he gaed to fight,
But being wise as he was wight,
He thought it shaw'd a saul but slight,
Daftly to stand,
And let gun powder wrang his sight,
Or fiddle hand.
Right paukily he left the plain,
Nor o'er his shoulder look'd again,
But scour'd o'er moss and muir amain,
To Reeky straight,
And tauld how mony Whigs were slain,
Before they faught.
Sae I've lamented Patie's end;
But lest your grief o'er far extend,
Come dight your cheeks, your brows unbend,
And lift your head:
For to a' Britain be it kend,
He is not dead.

Inscription on the Cave at Gilmerton.

Upon the earth thrives villainy and woe,
But happiness and I do dwell below;
My hands hewed out this rock into a cell,
Wherein from din of life I safely dwell:
On Jacob's pillow nightly lies my head;
My house when living, and my grave when dead:
Inscribe upon it when I'm dead and gone,
I liv'd and dy'd within my mother's womb.

On JOHN PETTIGREW Minister at Givan.

Here lies a rev'rend Givan priest,
Who sure against his will's deceast;
His soul's to Abram's bosom fled,
As by his rev'rend elders said.
Others who knew his youthful joys,
Say, Sarah's rather was his choice.
But be it as it will, his scabbard's humbl'd,
Death tripp'd up his heels, and down he tumbled.

Lady SHAW's Epitaph.

Here lies interr'd beside a witch,
Th'oppressor both of poor and rich:
How she sends, and how she fares,
De'il ane kens, and as few cares.

On JOHN BELL.

I John Bell smith, lies under this stane,
Four of my sons laid it on my wame;
I was man of my meat, and master of my wife,
And liv'd in my house without meikle strife.
If thou be'st a better man in thy time than I mas in mine,
Take this stane aff my wame and lay't on top of thine.

On THOMAS RYMOUR Maltman in Coupar.

Through Christ, I am not inferior
To William the conqueror.

On a Blacksmith.

My sledge and hammer's both declin'd;
My bellows too have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd,
And in the dust my vise is laid;
My coal is spent, my iron's gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done.

On GEORGE FAICHNEY.

Beneath this turff lies Geordie Faichney,
A gamester and the devil's haickney;
Who liv'd by cheating at the cards,
Prentice boys and senseless lairds.
Blyth was he when he drew his breath,
And dy'd a right gay dancing death;
Because one day he got his draught in,
And burnt the flesh of James M'Naughton,
Now Satan's got him by the limb,
To do the very same to him:
Glad was old Nick, when he got him,
Haul'd to his pit that wants the bottom;
Whisper'd to him in his ear,
My ain Geordie, welcome here.

On a LADY.

Here lies a lady, who if not bely'd,
Took wise St Paul's advice, and all things try'd:
Nor stopt she here, but follow'd through the rest,
And always stuck the longest to the best.

On JANET BEATIE at Montrose.

Let earth take earth, the devil his sins again,
The world its goods, the soul may heav'n contain.

On WEST the Boatman.

Here lies boatman West,
Who was none of the best;
In his youth he was wild,
And when old was a child:
Being dead at the last,
Desir'd old Charon to give him a cast.

On a Dwarf at Kilsyth.

Beneath this stone here lies a man.
Whose body was not full three span;
A boon companion day and night,
Sir Thomas Henderson of Hystoun, knight.

On a Scold.

Here lies entomb'd a married man's great woe,
A nimble linguist, and a quick tongu'd shrew;
She's dead, and earth to earth is flung
The earth holds her who could not hold her tongue.

On one unknown.

Here lies interr'd one good old aunty,
Whom death has catch'd in his port manty:
She dy'd the age of five and fifty;
Shame fa' the hands that first shall lift thee.

On JOHN SMITH.

Here lies John Smith.
Whom death slew for all his pith;
The starkest man in Aberlady:
God prepare and make us ready.

On JOHN SIMPSON in St. Andrews.

On an Old Woman.

Here lies an old woman wrapt in her linen,
Mother to James and Thomas Binnin;
Who for want of a coffin was buried in a girnel;
The earth got the shell, and the devil got the kernel.

The Character of a Prison

A prison is a house of care,
A place where none can thrive,
A touchstone for to try a friend;
A grave to one alive:
Some times a place of right,
Some times a place of wrong,
Some times a place for whores and thieves,
And honest men among.