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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 ?
John Pringles dead, and that I rew :
Had ye but kend him sae wad you,

Your Heart wad bleed.
He couthsome, trusty was and true;

But, Sirs, he's dead !

To gi'e a Tune he was nae sweir
At Pasch, or ony Time a Year,
Gi'e him a Waught of Ale or Bear,

He made nae Doubt,
He green'd for nae mair of your Gear

But Soup about.

At Banquets, Bridels, Feasts and Fairs,
His Chanterlill dang down aa Cares,
He gart the Carles loup in Pairs,

And gape and sing;
The Littleanes spang'd upo' the Stairs

Like ony Thing.

He made them yaal o' Lith and Limm,
They danc'd till baith their Een grew dimm,
Then frae the Legen to the Brimm

He took his Scuds ;
Well did the Gentlemen like him,

He gart them smudge.

Farmers ne'r loot him be in Straits,
For ilka Spring be sure he gets
A heaped Riddle fow o' Yets,

To be a Melder ;
The Sheltie never wanted Baits

Frae every Elder.

Now we that's young Chiells weeps and wails,
Ryving our Haffats wi' our Nails;
We'll get nae mae auld gabbet Tales

                        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.
That his Antagonist is gane,

And fled his Collours,

In Winter Nights he wad nae hook
To tell droll Tales like a Print Book,
And atween Hands to tack a Tuck

He was nae freff,

He sat in Baillie Lauder's Nook,

And gart us gaff.

Blyth has he been wi' Ale and Punch,
At Lauder, Gallowsheills and Dunce,
Chiells wad a gi'n his Bags a Punce

Till they had stooted :
He wan his Hairst-Fee at Tersonce,

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:
For Pirns and Hecks whare will we gang,   

Now whan he's dead.

He'd shave your Beard the lee-lang Year,
For ae scaa'd single Fow o'Bear;
Good at it was he, I can swear,

Wi' cliver Whittles;
And Castile Soap, the best o' Gear,

Lay in his Shottles.

Barber, Wheel-wright, and Piper too,
For lack o' him what will we doo ?
Few like him e'er wan in a Croo,

Sae free o' Fraud.
Whan he was Fou his Drons plaid Boo,

And Baw-wau'd.

Yoke he and Habbie Symson's Ghost,

Upon Elysium's bonny Coast,

Where there is neither Snaw nor Frost,

They'll never sinder:
They'll have a Chapin and a Tost,

It's nae'ther Wonder.

Auld Andrew Hair that rings our Bell,
Gart aa my Heart dunt like a Mell,
Whan he gowl'd out that waefue Yell,

John Pringles dead !
I loord he had been stiff himsell,

And cauld like Lead.

Well, John, since Death, that dolefou Pest;
Nae langer here wad let thee last,
But 'mang the Dead did thee arrest,

Wi' Mools to mingle,
Aa we can say, we wish good Rest

To thee, John Pringle.


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Probable date published: 1720-   shelfmark: Ry.III.c.36(114)
Broadside entitled 'Elegie'
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