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Broadside entitled 'Elegy, on the Death of Hary Ormiston, late Hangman of Edinburgh'
E L E G Y,
On the Death of Hary Ormiston, late
O Curs'd Atropus cruel Wife!
Cut many's Thread,
But now he's dead.
He's doubtless dead and D?l ma-care,
For Sutherland's become his Air ;
Who Thieves and Robbers winna spair,
I'll pond a Plack,
Nor of the Spulzie take a Share
To spair their Back.
Whoors, Thieves Robbers, Whilliewhaws,
Greet out your Een,
He'll Cow you clean,
Tho' he cou'd Girning like a Tiger,
He laid them on
But now he's gone.
When he the fatal Stage did Jump on,
And cut so fair,
And shame head mair.
But when a claw'd Crown he did fear,
And Grimer Postures,
Of Borea's Bloisters.
But if the Croud disdaining look't,
To tie the Teather ;
He scanst the Lether.
All Strumpets for Sculdudrie Sin,
Weep for auld Hary,
For Sutherland will Taun your Skin
And never spare you.
Make Calton Rocks and Craigie Wells,
Ajacent Hight where Echo dwells,
Resound your hideout Shouts and Yells:
Ye Bedlam People,
In Mad'lin Steeple,
Lament his Death Fish-Mercat-Closs
Less ye forget him,
Dry like Skeat him.
Let Tears frae a your Eyes Distil,
Gi him his Praise.
On Hanging Days.
Who'll norm decide your Kible Cables
Since Hary's dead.
When ought was lost, we need but spear,
He'd tell the Trajick,
By Spell or Magick:
THE Man who liv'd by choaking Breath,
An other ELEGY done by another Hand.
AN has ald Death come in his Rage,
Has pull'd him now ? I dare engage,
His Place, I'm sure few in this Age,
For Art and Skill.
He serv'd his Time to George his Brother,
Folk for to kill,
Against their Will.
Three noble Arts he had, I know,
A Man of War,
When Hary walked Down the Bow,
And in his Wallat bore the Tow,
Folks Days that ended.
When ever he got them in's Teather,
He would have slipt them o're the Leather,
As tender hearted as a Father,
And so discreet,
Pou down their Feet.
A Doctor was the Second Art,
That Hary had, who was so smart,
So skilfully that every Part, :
He could have heal'd
Nor pain would feel'd.
This Doctor's gone A'las, A las !
For Death on him has turn'd the Chase
And sent him of in a short Space,
But how he fares,
There's few that cares.
Probable period of publication:
1718-1722 shelfmark: Ry.III.c.36(120)