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24
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.
