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Broadside entitled 'Elegie'
On John Pringle, Town-Piper of Lauder.
To the Tune of, Lang Unken'd.
[ Done by Maggie Riddel's Son. ]
OGosh! what will Come o' us now ?
Your Heart wad bleed.
But, Sirs, he's dead !
To gi'e a Tune he was nae sweir
He made nae Doubt,
But Soup about.
At Banquets, Bridels, Feasts and Fairs,
And gape and sing;
Like ony Thing.
He made them yaal o' Lith and Limm,
He took his Scuds ;
He gart them smudge.
Farmers ne'r loot him be in Straits,
To be a Melder ;
Frae every Elder.
Now we that's young Chiells weeps and wails,
Frae him I doubt.
He'll blaw nae mair at merry Mails,
His Pipe's clean out.
At Bridels he held ay his Nain,
And Bell'd-the-Cat wi' Don. M'Clean ;
Wha now's as canty, blyth and fain,
As gi'n him Dollars.
And fled his Collours,
In Winter Nights he wad nae hook
He was nae freff,
He sat in Baillie Lauder's Nook,
And gart us gaff.
Blyth has he been wi' Ale and Punch,
Till they had stooted :
And never louted.
At making of Lint-Wheels he dang,
And made them ay baith tight and strang;
Summer and Winter he was thrang,
And hated Greed:
Now whan he's dead.
He'd shave your Beard the lee-lang Year,
Wi' cliver Whittles;
Lay in his Shottles.
Barber, Wheel-wright, and Piper too,
Sae free o' Fraud.
Yoke he and Habbie Symson's Ghost,
Upon Elysium's bonny Coast,
Where there is neither Snaw nor Frost,
They'll never sinder:
It's nae'ther Wonder.
Auld Andrew Hair that rings our Bell,
John Pringles dead !
And cauld like Lead.
Well, John, since Death, that dolefou Pest;
Wi' Mools to mingle,
To thee, John Pringle.
Probable date published:
1720- shelfmark: Ry.III.c.36(114)