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Thrummy him thank’d, and syae his gowd
Intil a mickle purse he stow'd;
An’ crzmm'd it in his oxter pouch,
And syne sought out his oaken cruselt,
Says Fare ye weel, I maun awa,
in’ see gin I get through the snaw—
Weel fare ye weel; replied the laird,
But how comes it ye haena shar’d
An’ gien your neibour o’ the money?-
Na, by saul I, Sir, quo Thrummy,
Then I the siller, sir, did win
(To haud in this wad be a sin)
Afore that I the ghaist had laid,
The nasty beast had———the bed,
And sae my tale I hear do end,
I hope no one it will offend.
My muse will nae assit me langer,
The dorty jade sometimes does anger,
I thought her ance a gay smart lass;
But now she’s come to sic a pass,
That a’ my cudgelling and wheeping
Will hardly wake her out o' sleeping,
To plague her mair I winna try,
But dight my pea and lay it by.
Young Whip Stitch, a Tailor’s Son.
A London Tailor, as 'tis said,
By buckram, canvass, tape and thread,
