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Broadside entitled 'An habbiack elegy'


An HABBIACK ELEGY on the untimely and de-
plorable Death of ROBERT F---s Kirk Treasurer's.
Man, who dy'd November 3d. 1724.

GREET a ye Bairns and bearded Fo'k,
Sic News would 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 his Cobling Trade,
Mending the Shoes that others made;
He's been a rare reforming Blade,   
                         Cobling the Church:
But now he's got the Shool and Spade,

                        And left i' the Lurch.

Limmers and Lairds he'll nae mair chase;
Nae mair we'll fee his pauky Face,
Keek thro' Closs-heads to catch a Brace

                                 Of Wapping Morts.
Play Bogleboo, a bonny Race,

      About the Ports.
In Turnpike-Foots he dar'n'd himsell,
At Jowing of the Ten-hour-bell,
Till he on unfree Traders fell,

                                              Bra whoring Blades,

Flegg'd them and girn'd, look'd sour and fell,

                Like Knave of Spades.

Of Traders he kept ay a Lift,
That nightly to his Mill brought Grift,
Soon he abstracted Mouters miss'd ;

                     That wrang'd his Bread.
Wi which he fill'd his awn Meal-Kist :

                           But now he's dead.

   Aft has he lay'n on Castle-brae,
In Moon-light till his Cheeks turn'd blae,
To kenn where Lads and Whores did gae

                                                Half drunk and daft,

He needed not auld Wives to spae,

                                       He kenn'd his Craft.
He threw his Cloak about his Gabbe,
Fidging as if he'd had the Scab;
Then gravely follow'd the fat Dabbe

                                                Wi little Din,

And when the Bed began to babbe,

                                           Sine Rob came in.

Said, Graceliss Bairns, and are ye yoked,
Think not the Kirk will thus be mocked ;
Tell me, young Laird   what's in your Pocket,

         Red headed Lads!
Youngsters like you should be well stocked,

                                  Meddles wi Bauds.

Wi Breeks amang his Feet, the Laird
Cry'd; Robin, doe nae bring the Guard,
There's Four fair Guineas, a can be spar'd

                                                                Upon my Saul;

I Faith I think it's e'en ill war'd,   

                                                 And 'tis my all.

But harked in the young Laird's Lug,
Gae to my House we'll take a Jug,
May be I'll let you take a Rug   
                                       Of callar Quean,
Yon Siut smells like a Doctor's Drug;

                            But mine's su clean.
Big as the great Mogul when din'd,
Be walk'd, and John Dagleish behind,
To his Seraglio in Leith Wynd,   
                                                                A to review

the Lass that was maist blyth and kind,   
Rob kiss'd her Mou.

Sculduddery-Fok may now sing Deul,
And steep their Graith in a cauld Pool:
Wha now will save them fra the Stool,
                                        In Time o' Need,

Rob, F----s was a ready Tool,   

                                                    But now he's dead.
Tho' mony ill fa'r'd Names we ca'd him,
His Maik was ne'er sin Days of Adam,
Gi him the Lour, whate'er ye bad him,
                                       He wou'd obey;

Ye might have lyen wi Meg or Madam,
                      Baith Night and Day.
Wha now will our By-blowes provide,
And fra our Wives Adulteries hide,

Rob F-----s was a skilful Guide,

                                                    Ca'd them his Petts,
Now we will ha'e a thrang Fire-side

      Wi ill got Getts.
As soon as Robins, Luif was creish'd,
What Creature wou'd not been well pleased,'
To fee how he the Brats baptiz'd,
       Like any priest?
Syne he upon the Caddel feiz'd,
    A bonny Jest

Fras a' Kirk-fok he bare the Gree.
Half Midwife, Nurse and Priest was He,
He neither curs'd nor bann'd, not He

                                                       Yet did not stick,

The leeve lang Day to cheat and lie,
As fast's auld Nick.
Proud was the Carle when he went thro
The landward Towns as grave's a Jew,
To fee the Gitelings binge and bow,
                                    And cry Papa,

Wow but he made a devilish Mou,
And sain'd them a
Auld Wives wi Rocks came to the Doors,
And Yonkiers peep'd thro' Holes and Bores,
To fee the Captain of the Whores,
         Auld Frig-a-bight
Coming to pay his Quarter Scores,

                                                A seemly Sight.
Altho' he play'd the Pimp a' Week,
On Holydays look'd mild and meek,
Scarcely you would hear him speak
                                        Abo'en his Breath

Upon his Hand he lean'd his Cheek,

                                  Like ane near Death.
Upon the stool still cust his Eye,
That he might Fornicators spy,   
And muttering with himself said Fy,
                                    0 Deul and Care!
Might nae the Man ha'e come to me

                   And no flood there.

But yet before the Text was read,
Good Robbin frae the Kirk was sled,
To say his Pray'rs at Barrel-head,
                         Drinking alane;

Red as a Turky Cock, the Blade.

                                                      Came back again.
We lo'ed to see his Judas Face
Repeting Preachings, saying Grace,
Unto the Tune of Chevy Chase,
                                          Shaking bis Head,

Wha will we get to fill his Place:

for he's could dead.

HERE all alone,
Beneath this stone,
our fine Reformer bides,

who pickt up crowns


His       EPITAPH.

      By tirling Lowns;

He scarcely left their Hides.   
Ask not at all,                     

where went his saul;            

The Question's scarcely civil,

Since it's well kend,

Bad Life must end,

In going to the D------l.


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Probable date published: 1724   shelfmark: Ry.III.c.36(095)
Broadside entitled 'An habbiack elegy'
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