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Broadside entitled 'Elegy'




O CANNYGATE poor Ellritch hole
What Loss what Crosses does thou thole ?
London and 'Death garrs thee look droll
                and hing thy head ;
Wow but thou has e'ne a cald Coal
                to Blaw indeed.

Hear me ye Hills and every Glen,
Ilk Craig, ilk Cleugh, and hollow Den,
And Echo shrill that aa way ken
                the Waefow Thud
Be Rackless Death wha came unsen
                to Lucky Wood.

She's Dead ou're true, she's Dead and gane,
Left us and WILLY burd alane,
To Bleer and Greet to Sob and Mane
                and Rive our Hair ;
Because we'le ne're see her again
                our Hearts are Sair.


She gae'd as fait as a new Prin,
And kept her Houssie Snod and Been;
Her Peuter glanc'd upo your Een
                like Siller Plate;
She was a donsy Wife and clean
                without Debate.


It did ane good to see her Stools,
Boord, Fire side and Facing Tools,
Rax, Chandlers, Tangs and Fire-shools
                Basket wi Bread
Poor Facers now may chew Pea-hools
                since Luky's Dead.


She ne're gae in a Lawin saass,
Nor Stoups aw sroath aboon the haass,
Nor kept dow'd Tip within her Waa's
                but Reeming Swats,
She never ran four Jute, because
                it gee's the Bats.


She had the Gate so well to please
With GRATIS Beef, dry Fish or Cheese,
Which kept our Purses ay at ease
                and Health in Tist,
And lent her fresh Nine Gallon Trees
                a hearty Lift.

She gae us aft hale Legs o Lamb,
And did nae hain her Mutton Ham,
And ay at Yule when er'e we came
                a braw Goose Pye,
And was nae that good Belly baum               
                nane dare deny.

The Writer Lads sou well may mind her,
Furthy was the, her Luck design'd her
Their common Mither, sure nane kinder
                e're brake Bread;
She has nae left her Maik behind her,
                but now she's Dead.

To the smaa Hours we aft fat still,
Nick'd round our Toasts and Snishing Mill,
Which asten cost us many a Gill
                to Aickenhead;
Good Cakes we wanted ne're at will
                the best of Bread.

Cou'd our saat Tears like Clyde down rin,
And had we Cheeks like Corra's Lin,
That aa the Warld might hear the din
                Rair frae ilk head ;
She was the wale of aa her Kin,
                but now she's Dead.


O LUCKY WOOD its hard to bear
The Loss but Oh ! we mann forbear,
Yet' fall thy Memory be dear
                while Blooms a Tree,
And after Ages Bairns will spear
                'BouT THE AND ME.


BEneath this Sod lyes LUCKY WOOD,
Whom aa Men might put faith in,
Who was nae sweer while she liv'd here,
Ta cram our Wames for naithing.

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Probable date published: 1718-   shelfmark: Ry.III.a.10(112)
Broadside entitled 'Elegy'
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