AN
ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF
JOCKEY's MOTHER.
Now a’ body kens my mither’s dead,
For weel I wat I bore her head,
And in the grave I faw her laid,
’Twas e’en right drole,
For her to change a warm fire-side,
For a cauld kirk-hole.
But ilka ane tell’st just like a sang,
That yon’s the gate we’ve a’ to geng,
For me to do’t, I think nae lang,
If I can do better,
For I true my mither thinks’t nae lang.
What heed we clatter
But thanks to death ay for the suter,
That did not let her get the Suter,
For ’bout her gear wad been a sclutter,
And sae had been,
For he came ay snoking about her,
Late at e’en.
For our Maggy watch’t and saw,
My mither’s back was at the wa’,
But what was mair hach ha’ hach ha’,
I winna tell,
She to do yon stood little awe,
Just like mysell.
But to get gear was a’ her drift,
And used many a pinging shift;
About her spinning and her thrift.
Was a' her care,
She’s gotten but little abune lift,
Wi’ her to wear.
FINIS.
