Grievious Complaint of the Beaux and the Bads,
And a the young Widows, and Lasses and Lads,
For Death's taking Mas: James Crouckshanks awa,
Who buckl'd the Beggers at Mountounha.
Interr'd in the Church-yeard of Inverask, the 29. of March 1724.
DEath ye're a slimm and packy Lown,
To pow the kaunty Curate down,
Wha's Maik did never wear a Gown,
Or yet a Head,
We'l turn a dreary dowy Town,
Sin he is dead.
He was the best Sight e're we sa,
A good Milk-Cow to Mountounha,
He valued neither Kirk nor Law
Mair's his auld Shoe,
He did nae care a Angle Stra',
What they coud do.
Aft have wi with him cagie been,
Drinking sweet Swats frae morn to 'een,
O! but he tnrn'd the Timber cleen,
Ne'r left ae Drap,
Until he kend nae Gray frae Green,
Fow was his Crap.
On Hally Days he preach'd like Thunder,
For haste he rave his Text asunder,
And truly Sirs 'twas nae great Wonder,
I realy think,
Three double Gills he was not under,
For's Morning drink.
His wi bit House was ay well packed,
Behind a Chair that's brocken backed,
Sick Tales th' auld gabbed Carle cracked,
In a blyth Mood,
Cry'd F--th I've fan upon the Nacko't,
My Doctrine's good,
When wi fell drowzie and did snoar,
The Carle gave a Hellish Roar,
Stampt wi his sit upon the Floor,
His Tongue did clink
Till Caps and Trunshers haf a Score,
fell frae the Bink.
Whan wi came aff for our awn Hames,
He cauld us lowdly by our Names,
Come take a Bicker wi Mas: James,
A hearty Drink.
Dinnie let's sinder wi toom Wames,
8 If ye have Clink
He sitg'd and leugh and was well pleas'd
Whan Bastards came to be baptiz'd,
And whan his wrinkl'd Loof was greez'd,
And they awa,
Deam Crute his Wife, his Siller seaz'd,
And birl'd it a,
Mas James grew angry to a pitch,
And greeting said I'll ne'er turn rich,
The Jad my Wife's a weather'd Witch,
Ay raving fow
D-I speed her for a drunken B-h,
I'm herryd now
Still in his poutch he kept a Cappy,
And drank nae Ale but what was happy,
Was carried till his Bed right sappy,
Wi hap'd his Head,
The Carl's Life was unko happy,
But now he's Dead.
Wha now will yoke young folks togither,
That leave their dady and their Mither,
I'm sure we'll ne'er get sick anither,
Him to succeed.
Lasses your Maidenheads will wither,
For he's cauld dead.
Anes for a Guinea and a Crown,
He married three Men to ae Lown,
And very fairly coup'd them down,
In his awn Bed,
Bra' way to make his Pat play brown
And him well fed.
Twae Ladies, but I'll gi' nae Names,
Had gotten Kinshins in their Wames,
And wi' their Jo's came to Mas James;
Said they were poor,
For Furnication wha can blame's
To get a Cure.
After they prig'd a Hour and mair,
Mas: James believ'd- they were rightbare,
And said what can ye really spair,
Poor traiked Lowns,
Quoth they wi' have, and that's right fair,
Twae white has Crowns.
Mas: James spake like a grave Divine,
Until he came their Hands to join,
And he sa' Rings wi Diamonds shine',
Which prov'd them rich.
D?m her quoth he sne's nickt me fine,
The cheeting B?.h.
And has the Limmer plai'd me that,
Before the gets Testificate,
I'll gar her drap a Fee that's fate,
Well can the pay.
I see ye dinna want the Clate.
My Lady Gay.
The Gentlemen got up their Canes,
And reistl'd well the Body'sBains,
Gentles quoth he spair poor Mas 'James,
And Ms auld Head,
'Twill be a blot upon your Names,
18. To be his Dead.
The Lasses now may weep and waill,
Salt Tears run down their Cheeks like Haill.
Wha now will take them be the Tail
And bang their Wame,
Death's dung Mas James with his stark Flail.
To a lang Hame.
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Probable date published:
1724 shelfmark: RB.I.106(094)
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