Dominie depos'd/Elegy on Maggy Simpson

by William Forbes

———

ELEGY

ON

MAGGY SIMPSON,

Who died Anno 1711.

AULD Reeky mourn in sable hue,
Let routh o’ tears dreep like May-dew,
To braw tippeny bid adieu
Which we wi’ greed,
Bended as fast as she cou’d brew,
But now she’s dead.

To tell the truth now, Maggy dang
O’ customers she had a bang;
For lairds an’ sutors a’ did thrang
To drink badeen;
The barn an’ yard was aft sae thrang
We took the green.

And there by dizens we lay down,
Syne sweetly ca’d the healths a-roun’,
To bonny lasses, black and brown,
As we loo’d best;
In bumpers we dull cares did drown,
An’ took our rest.

When in our pouch we found some clinks,
An’ took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links,
Aften in Maggy’s, at Hay jinks,
We guzzl’d cruds,
Till we cou’d scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks,
Cast aff our duds.

We drank, an’ drew an’ fill’d again,
O wow! but we were blyth an’ fain:
When ony had their count mistane,
O it was nice,
To hear us a’ cry, Pick your bane,
An’ spell your dice.

Fou close we us’d to drink an’ rant,
Until we did baith glowr and gaunt,
An’ pish, an’ spew, an’ yesk, an’ maunt,
Right swash I trow,
Then aff auld stories we did chant,
Whan we were fu’.

Whan we were wearied at the gouff,
Then Maggy Simpson’s was our houff,
Now a’ our gamesters may sit douff,
Wi’ hearts like lead,
Death wi’ his run reach’d her a youff,
An’ sae she’s dead.

Maun we be forc’d thy skill to tine,
For which we will right sair repine?
Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine
The pauky knack,
O’ brewing ale amaist like wine,
That gar’d us crack?

Sae brawly did a pease-scone tost,
Biz i’ the quaff, and flee the frost,
There we gat fu’ wi’ little cost,
An’ muckle speed :
Now wae worth death, our sport’s a’ lost.
Since Maggy’s dead.

Ae summer night I was sae fu’,
Amang the riggs I gaed to spew,
Syne down on a green bank I trow,
I took a nap,
An’ sought a’ night Balillilu,
As sound’s a tap.

An’ whan the dawn began to glow,
I birsled up my dizzy pow,
Frae ’mang the corn like worry cow,
Wi’ banes fu’ sair,
An’ kend nae mair than if a yow.
How I came there.

Some said it was the pith of broom,
That she stow’d in her masking loom,
Which in our heads rais’d sic a soom,
Or some wild seed,
Which aft the chappen stoup did toom,
But fill’d our head.

But now since ’tis sae that we must
Not in the best ale put our trust,
Bnt when we’re auld return to dust,
Without remeed;
Why should we tak it in disgust,
Since Maggy’s dead:

O’ wardly comforts she was rife,
An’ liv’d a lang an’ hearty life,
Right free o’ care, or toil, or stife,
Till she was stale;
An’ kend to be a canny wife
At brewing ale.

Then farewell Maggy, dowse an’ fell,
O’ brewers a’ you bore the bell;
Let a’ your gossips yelp an’ yell,
An’ without feed,
Guess whither ye’re in heaven or hell,
They’re sure ye’re dead.

FINIS.