Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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Elegy on Robert Frame,
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
29
Elegy on Robert Frame,
SHOEMAKER, EAST KILBRIDE.
Saffs! what mishanter's happen'd now,
That gars ilk body hing their brow?
“Wow, are the tidings strange to you?
Death's batt'rin'-ram
Has noost the carcase, black and blue,
O' Robin Fram!”
That gars ilk body hing their brow?
“Wow, are the tidings strange to you?
Death's batt'rin'-ram
Has noost the carcase, black and blue,
O' Robin Fram!”
Hech sirs! great skaith the clachan's met,
His peregal we'll never get!
King Crispin's sons may whinge and fret
Aside their dram,
Sin' death has ta'en, as nature's debt,
Queer Robin Fram.
His peregal we'll never get!
King Crispin's sons may whinge and fret
Aside their dram,
Sin' death has ta'en, as nature's debt,
Queer Robin Fram.
What toun could boast o' sic as he
Atween Port-Patrick and Dundee?
He gart the time like lightning flee,
When ane did happen
To touch his endless comic glee
Out owre a chappin.
Atween Port-Patrick and Dundee?
He gart the time like lightning flee,
When ane did happen
To touch his endless comic glee
Out owre a chappin.
He was a chield could fill the chair
O' Comus at a rant or fair!
Weel was he wordy o' a skair,
Frae ony body,
O' porter, yill, or better ware,
True blue or toddy.
O' Comus at a rant or fair!
Weel was he wordy o' a skair,
Frae ony body,
O' porter, yill, or better ware,
True blue or toddy.
When tired o' tuggin' limy leather
He brak industry's pinin' tether,
And kennin weel whar to forgether
Wi' chaps o' glee,
There would they bleeze wi' ane anither
Till a' were ree.
He brak industry's pinin' tether,
And kennin weel whar to forgether
Wi' chaps o' glee,
There would they bleeze wi' ane anither
Till a' were ree.
30
If chance him landed in a quarrel,
While tastin' o' the maut-bree barrel,
He didna stan' to rive and harle,
But doun on's back,
Syne wi' his legs he keepit parle,
And flang and strack.
While tastin' o' the maut-bree barrel,
He didna stan' to rive and harle,
But doun on's back,
Syne wi' his legs he keepit parle,
And flang and strack.
In pantomime he was a Roscius,
Could bang their circus braggadocios;
In Greek he could ha'e puzzled Grotius
Wi' his deep head:
But, oh! his want ilk birkie's woe shows,
For Robin's dead.
Could bang their circus braggadocios;
In Greek he could ha'e puzzled Grotius
Wi' his deep head:
But, oh! his want ilk birkie's woe shows,
For Robin's dead.
Ye fiddlin' sons o' great Apollo,
Wha thrum for cash the dancin' solo,
For manliness he beat you hollow;
For Robin ever
Drank a' his pay: whate'er might follow
He pouch'd it never.
Wha thrum for cash the dancin' solo,
For manliness he beat you hollow;
For Robin ever
Drank a' his pay: whate'er might follow
He pouch'd it never.
Mourn him a' ye wha deal in liquor,
For sib was he to the ale bicker;
His face oft gart ye laugh and nicker,
At his ain cost;
He was a frequent prize, and sicker;
But now he's lost.
For sib was he to the ale bicker;
His face oft gart ye laugh and nicker,
At his ain cost;
He was a frequent prize, and sicker;
But now he's lost.
Yet, if respect for the deceased
Fill ony neuk within your breast,
A snod headstane ye'll raise at least
To mark his graff;
And, gratis, I shall gi'e ye neist
His Epitaph.
Fill ony neuk within your breast,
A snod headstane ye'll raise at least
To mark his graff;
And, gratis, I shall gi'e ye neist
His Epitaph.
EPITAPH.
Cauld below lies Robin Fram,Wha sincerely loved his dram,
By which love he'll surely merit
To be call'd a man of spirit.
True, indeed; but 'tis a pity
'Twas the sp'rit of aquavitæ.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |