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Broadside entitled 'Elegy'



On the much lamented Death of merry Maggie
Wilson, Poultry-Wife in Edinburgh.

[ Done by Rorie Pringle Drawer in the Tolbooth. ]

Walliwafaw your Fingers, Death,
That stappit Maggie Wilson's Breath;
Had I been ye, I'd been right leath,
                And wae to fell her.

The Frau was sonsie, blyth and kind,
Within the Head of Marline's Wynd;
Aft have we with her supt and dynd,
                In Mitchell's Celler.

She scaulded ay within the Market,
Louder than e're a Coly barket ;
Sae lang her souple Tongue it yerket;
                She deev'd us aa.

In scaulding she took meikle Pride,
She thrust her Hands into her Side;
The D------l an Egg-wife there durst bide,
                But ran awa.

Well cou'd she dance the Threesome Reel,
Faster than ony spinning Wheel :
She turn'd about upon her Heel,
                Ay trim and clean.

Then bingeing, Gee's a Kiss, she'd say,
Or shall we try th' auld-fash'on'd Play ?
I'm e'en as fain to do't the Day,
                As at Fifteen.

Well kend she how to truff a Hen,
A Pair of Eggs, and sometimes Ten;
Then gausy, she'd come wriggling ben,
                And say, Here's t' ye.

Fidging for Fainness, and she cries,
Sing, Green Sleeves and Pudden Pies,
Drink Hilter-skilter till ye rise,
                Then Good be, wi ye.

I downie think, it gars me greet,
How we fat Geese and Hens did eat ;
Yet D------l a Plack to pay for Meat
                O' ony Sort.

We drank a Nine or else a Six,
And then we play'd our souple Tricks,
Which toom'd our Pockets and our P------s
                Wi bonny Sport.

O but my Heart was deadly sare
Whan I saw Maggies Pouch turn bare,
And dragged up the To'booth Stair.
                Like traiked Whore.

Salt Tears ran trinkling down my Face,
Whan I saw Maggie in that Place,
Aa tattet'd and in great Disgrace,
                Turn'd auld and poor.

But cunning Limmer, whan she saw
She cou'd by nae Wyle shun the Law,
She slockned Drouth and Care awa
                Wi Drinking.

Qus she, Stoup-Jobbing's brought me here,
It's been an unko fashious Year,
Mony stark Purses that had Gear
                Leaves clinking.

Fools fling their Siller in the Sea,
I'm sure they're dafter Gouks nor me,
I put mine in the Brewer's Tree,
                For Grottum:

Then let us birle about our Placks,
Be wanton o'er auld gabbit Cracks;
We'll have, whilst there's a Nine or Six,
                Our Potum.

Good sooth the canty crackie Hissie,
Wi Kate and Rorie has been bizie,
Drinking till both their Heads turn'd dizie,
                At Cleghorn's Scuds.

So fast they bang'd about the Bicker,
Fill'd to the Tap wi reaming Liquor,
They coud nae, tho' their both right Sicker,
                Cast aff their Dudds,

At Night she smurtled when she saw,
Fou Stoups come ben when Clock strake twa ;
She gae her Arse the other Claw,
                Haff Winking;

And ceckled up a merry Tune,
For Swats kept ay her Heart aboon,
Sometimes she coud nae loose her shoon,
                Wi Drinking.

My Malison light on them aa,
Excepting only an or twa,
That gard the couthsome Laddren fa.
                Thro' drunken Quarrels.

For down she couped Heels o'er Head,
Alang the Gantrees lay like Lead;
We harl'd her out, and fand her Dead
                Amongst the Barrels!

'Tis true, we yet see Maggie gang,
And cruning o'er a bawdy Sang;
Making a short Foot and a lang,
                Sometimes in haste.

She cannot rest for Drouth we ween,
The like of that's been aften seen ;
Then dinnae trust your awn twa Eyen;
                'Tis but her Ghast.


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Probable date published: 1720-   shelfmark: RB.l.106(089)
Broadside entitled 'Elegy'
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