Part 3 — PART III.

Now Maggy’s twasome in a swoon, A counsel held condemns the loon, The cushle mushle thus gaed roun’, Our bonny Clark, He’ll get the dud an’ sarken gown, That ugly sark. Consider, sirs, now this his crime, ’Tis no like hers, or yours, or mine, He’s just next thing to a divine, An’ vow, ’tis odd, Sic men should a’ their senses tine, An’ fear o’ God. ’Tis strange what mak’s kirk folk sae stupit, To mak or meddle wi’ the fuca’it, Or mint to preach in sic a pu’pit, The senseless fools, Far better for them hunt the tyouchot, Or teach their schools. They hunt about frae house to house, Just as a tailor hunts a louse, Still girding at the barley-juice An’ aft get drunk, They plump into some open sluice, Where a’ is sunk. A plague upo’ that oil o’ ma’t, That weary drink is a’ their fau’t, It made our Dominie to hal’t; The text fulfil, Which bids cast out the sa’rless sa’t, On the dunghill. They are sae fed, they lie sae saft, They are sae hain’d, they grow sae daft; This breeds ill wiles, ye ken fu’ aft In the black coat, Till poor Mess John, and the priest-craft, Gaes to the pot. I tald them then, it was but wicked To add affliction to the afflicted, But to it they were sae addicted, They said therefore, The clout about me should be pricked, At the kirk-door. But yet not kirk nor consterie, Quoth they, can ask the taudy fee, Tell them in words just twa or three, The deil a plack, For tarry-breeks should ay gae free, An’ he’s the Clark. I then was dumb! how I was griev’d! What would I gi’en to be reliev’d! They us’d me waur than I had thiev’d, Some strain’d their lungs, An’ very loud they me mischiev’d Wi’ their ill tongues. Had you been there to hear and see The manner how they guided me, An’ greater penance wha could dree! A Lettergae, Wi’ sic a pack confin’d to be, On gude Yule-day. Young Jack wi’ skirls he pierc’d the skies, I pray’d that death might close his eyes, But did not meet with that surprise, To my regret, Sae had nae help, but up an’ cries Het drinks to get. This laid their din; the drink was stale, An’ to’t they gaed wi’ tooth an’ nail, An’ wives whase rotten tusks did fail Wi’ bread an’ cheese, They birl’d fu’ fast at butter’d ale, To gie them ease. They ca’ upon me, then dadda, Come, tune your fiddle, play us a Jigg or hornpipe, nae mair SOL FA, My bonny cock; The kirk an’ you maun pluck a craw About young Jock. Play up, Sae merry as we hae been, Or, Wat ye wha we met yestreen, Or, Lass will ye lend me your leam? Or, Soups o’ brandy, Or, Gin the kirk wad let’s alane, Or, Houghmagandy. Sic tunes as these, yea, three or four, They call’d for, ill mat they cour, Play, cries the cummer, wi’ a glour, The wanton toudy, Wha’ did the Dominie ding o’er, Just heels o’er goudy. O’ music I had little skill, But as I could, I played my fill, It was my best to shaw good will; Yet a’ my drift, Was best how I might win the hill The wives to shift. Sae leaving them to drink het ale, I slipt awa’, an’ let them rail: Then running till my breath did fail, I was right glad Frae kirk and wives to tak’ leg bail,— Nae doubt they said. The Lettergae has plaid the fool, And shifted the repenting-stool. To kirk and session bids good-day, He’ll o’er the hills and far away.

Now, loving friends I hae you left, Ye ken I neither stole nor reft, But when I found myself infeft, In a young Jack, I did resolve to change the haft For that mistak’. An’ reasons mae I had anew, For I had neither horse nor cow; My stock took wings an’ aff it flew, Sae a’ was gone, An’ deil a flee had I was new Except young John. Too aft my thirsty throat to cool, I went to visit the punch bowl, Which makes me now wear reddish wool Instead o’ black; Or I must foot the cutty stool Wi’ deil a plack. The chappen-stoup, the pint an’ gill, Too aft I caused for to fill, Ay loving those wha would sit still, An’ wet the mouth, Ne’er minding that the Tullo-hill, Leads people south. O but that loving laird Kingswells My blessings flow where his foot swells, Lang life to him whate’er befals, God be his guide, He’s cured a thousand thirsty sauls, An’ mine beside. O had I but thae days again, Which I sae freely spent in vain, I’d strive some better for to ken. What future chance Should blaw me here out o’er the main, An’ sae near France. But since that ills maun ay befall The chiel that will be prodigal; When wasted to the very spaul He turns his tusk, For want o’ comfort to his saul, On hungry husk. Now since I’m aff sae mony a mile, There’s naething got without some toil, I’ll wait; cross fortune yet may smile, Come want, come wealth, I’ll tak’ a pint in the mean while, To Heilden’s health. Sae, for a time, friends fare ye weel, My pot companions, true and leel, I wish ye all a merry yule, Much mirth and glee Nae mair young Jacks into the creel That day for me. Some other Yule may yet cast up, When we again shall meet, To drown our sorrows in a cup, In case we live to see’t.

Auld Reeky mourn in sable hue, Let fouth o’ tears dreep like May dew, To bra’ tippeny bid adieu, Which we wi’ greed, Bended as fast as she could brew, But now she’s dead. To tell the truth now, Maggy dang, O’ customers she had a bang; For lairds an’ sutors a’ did thrang To drink bedeen; The barn an’ yard was aft sae thrang, We took the green. An’ there by dizens we lay down, Syne sweetly ca’d the healths aroun’, To bonny lasses, black or brown, As we lo’ed best; In bumpers we dull cares did drown, An’ took our rest. When in our pouch we fand some clinks, An’ took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links, Aften in Maggy’s, at Hay-jinks, We guzzl’d scuds, Till we could scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks Cast aff our duds. We drank an’ drew, an’ fill’d again, O wow! but we were blythe an’ fain: When ony had their count mistane, O it was nice, To hear us a’ cry pick your bane, An’ spell your dice. Fou close we us’d to drink an’ rant, Until we baith did glowr and gaunt, An’ pish, an’ spue, an’ yesk, an’ maunt, Right swash I trow, Then aff auld stories we did chaunt, Whan we were fou. Whan we were wearied at the gouff, Then Maggy Johnston’s was our houff, Now a’ our gamesters may sit douff, Wi’ hearts like lead. Death wi’ his rung reach’d her a youff, An’ sae she’s dead. Maun we be forc’d thy skill to tine, For which we will right sair repine? Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine, The pauky knack, O brewing ale amaist like wine, That gar’d us crack? Sae brawly did a pease-scon toast. Biz i’ the quaff, and flee the frost, There we gat fu’ wi’ little cost, An’ muckle speed; Now wae worth death, our sport’s a’ lost, Since Maggy’s dead. Ae summer night I was sae fu’, Amang the riggs I gaed to spew, Syne down on a green bank I trow, I took a nap, An’ sought a night balillilu, As soun’s a tap. An’ whan the dawn began to glow, I hirsled up my dizzy pow, Frae ’mang the corn like worry-kow, Wi’ banes fu’ sair, An’ kend nae mair than if a yow, How I came there. Some said it was the pith o’ broom, That she stow’d in her masking loom, Which in our heads rais’d sic a foom, Or some wild seed, Which aft the chappen-stoup did toom, But fill’d our head. But now since ’tis sae that we must, Not in the best ale put our trust, But when we’re auld return to dust, Without remead; Why should we tak’ it in disgust, Since Maggy’s dead. O’ wardly comforts she was rife, An’ liv’d a lang and hearty life, Right free o’ care, or toil, or strife, Till she was stale; An’ kend to be a canny wife At brewing ale. Then farewell Maggy, douce and fell, O’ brewers a’ ye bore the bell; Let a’ your gossips yelp and yell, An’ without feed, Guess whither ye’re in heaven or hell, They’re sure ye’re dead.