Broadside entitled 'Sutherland's Lament, for the loss of his Post, with his advice to John Dagless his Successor'

Transcription

SUTHERLAND'S, Lament   for the
loss of his Post.   

WITH HIS

Advice to John Dagleeshis Successor.

I Think Auld Reikie's now grown Daft,
To change my Lord Provo so aft,
For ae poor shot o' wrang cad Waft,
                They've Banish't me;
I was the Deacon o' my Craft,
                An boor the Gree.

For when the Throng I marched thro'
Wi'a bair Breast just like a Beaw,
All ran to see my Lord Provo,
                And did Admire:
But with a bair Back now I go,               
                To get my Hire

When ance I Whiped Nannie Fender,
To let them see I was na tender,
Many a lusty Lick I lend her,
                On her bair Back,
Till a the Folk cry'd out he'l end her,
                At ilk a Whake.

But Peas for Beans O Dool!   O Dool!
I 'm Whiped now at my aun School,
E'r I were lade just like a Fool,
                Thro' a the Town!
I'd sit Ten Sundays on the Stool,
                And wear the Gown.

Now if this Fashon come to Town,
To Wheep ilk ane that plays the Lown,
Wi' any Man I'l lay a Crown,
                I'm sure he'l Los't.
They'l bring some English Artist down,
                To get the Post.

At last I judg'd a Wife my sell,
And wheep't her where she wad na tell,
Till in came the Good Man him sell,
                Made ilka Stroak,
Ring louder than the Common Bell,
                E'r Nine a Clock.

And just like a Poor silly Soat,
I've lost my Labor and my Goat,
They might as well a Cut my throat,
                'Twas Henrys Death,
Poor Man he was no worth a Groat,
                At his last Breath

My Credits gon and nothing for't,
But Forty pound and a bass Mort,
As Common as the Cowgate Port,
                Or Leith stage Coach,
I've play'd my self a bonny Sport,
                O sad Reproach

The D?I has made me now as poor,
As Job, and just like a bair Moor
Left Nothing: But a Common Whoor
                To me behind.
She'l be my Death, I'm very sure;
                An that ye'l find.

Now take my Councill John Delgeess,
Ne're Spare them tho' your Loof they Grees
Bring off the Skin Just like a flees,
                At ilke Tost
For if you Chance to miss a Leith,            
                Ye'l loss your Post,

Wee'r Billies let us Never quarll,
you have my Post lend me your Barll,
I'le win ten Shillings an a far'll,
                Ilka week,
Er Long I will have ten Pound Starll,
                In ilke Breike,

Let's make a Barter, what's the Matter ?
Drink ye good Ale, I man Drink Watter,
But if you chance to prove a Fater,
                Aff go ye;
May they treat like Furnicator
                As they've done me.

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