ELEGY on the murnful Banishment of James
Campbel of Burnbank to the West-Indies.
|
NOw let Salt-Tears run down our Cheeks,
|
The only Son of Mungo Cleeks,
|
Is to be banishd in few Weeks
|
ore to Virginie,
|
Id rather gin a in my Breeks
|
and thats a Guinea.
|
Fiend cut the Coots that takes him there,
|
Im sure its far from being fair,
|
For very ill can we him spare,
|
well lead sad Lives,
|
Alas! hell Counsel us no mair
|
to Guide ill Wives.
|
They had better led him down the Bow,
|
To take a Dance in Harys Tow,
|
Then many Hearts would Merry grow,
|
nane would complain,
|
Theyd say, when they drest his black Pow,
|
hes fair ore seen.
|
But now thats unco kind of Law,
|
To send poor Bankie clean awa,
|
To Pagan Folk he never saw
|
theyve wrangd him,
|
Theyd better usd him like Bogha,
|
and fairly hangd him.
|
Why should they persecute With Rigour,
|
Poor Bankie in his Prime and Vigour,
|
The Spark that made so fine a Figure,
|
through all his Life;
|
Cause he gard Highland John McGregor
|
Debauch a Wife.
|
Tho Bankies Head contrivd the Plot,
|
And John for some few Crowns he got,
|
Crap in into her wanton Spot
|
with Higland Graith;
|
That never would have wrangd her Throat
|
Ill give my Aith.
|
What will be Bankies Occupation,
|
When he is banishd frae this Nation,
|
Into a far farast Plantation
|
Come and Ill Ventur
|
Cheatry, Adultry and Furnication,
|
Makes a rare Planter.
|
And if that he be spared Alive
|
To see his bra Plantation thrive,
|
Rogues and Limmers, all will Strive
|
for to gae there,
|
A wally Trade with him theyll drive,
|
but here theyre bare.
|
O! but my Heart it fairly grieves,
|
To think that he with Whores and Thieves;
|
Man Drudge among, Tobacca Leaves
|
dreeping with Sweet,
|
While a the Wages he receives,
|
is heal Folks Meat.
|
Blae will he look to think hes lost
|
His creditable Castle Post.
|
Ands banisht to an Indian Coast
|
for being a Knave,
|
Of Bankie now well nae mair boast
|
for hes a Slave.
|
Dreep Burial Guns ye warlike Folk
|
That lives upon the Castle-Rock,
|
Because that your Store-keepers broke
|
and like to beg,
|
Yed better Shot him through the Dock
|
wi great Muns-Meg.
|
Tho daft Ginks said he was a Rouk,
|
Telling what Stands of Arms he took,
|
And put them in his ain Pock nook
|
twas very fair,
|
Theyre Fools and speak without the Book
|
he kept them there.
|
Im sure before he want his Bread,
|
For, O he has a witty Head,
|
With Mercury hll be their Dead
|
or in a Stank,
|
Hell gar them sink like as much Lead
|
its like Burnbank,
|
Poor Jamie Mushet, Grizie Bell,
|
Twa Folk thats very like him sell
|
Were they wi him theyd a sae fell
|
wi little clamour
|
Theyd send some Souls to Heaven or Hell,
|
had they a Hammer.
|
Him on the Street well nae mair see,
|
Running like a bussie Bee,
|
Contriving ay the other Plea
|
he was a Jewel,
|
But now hes Banisht ore the Sea
|
O thats Crewel.
|
When Messengers lift up their Hands
|
To touch his Shoulders wi their Wands,
|
Soon did he give them the long Sands
|
and drew his Raper
|
He reckoned Captions, Bills and Bands
|
but useless Paper
|
O but he had a cunning way
|
When Creditors refused Delay
|
And Feind a Plack he had to pay
|
within his Spung
|
He payed there Skins, and some Folk say
|
halfe Stickd George Young
|
Tho he was Poor he was right Sprush
|
With Scarlet Hose and Coat of Plush;
|
He into Ladys Rooms would rush
|
flew round their waste
|
Syn took them by the Cutty Mush
|
in a P---k hast
|
Hes left you now to Chase the Black,
|
As he did you upon their Backs,
|
Hell coup them till their Curpons crack,
|
at the auld Sport,
|
There is nae Kirk Thesaurer there that taks,
|
any Thing fort.
|
Alas poor Emelie Marine,
|
The Days are gane that yeve seen,
|
Aft hae ye with him wanton been,
|
at hough me Gandy,
|
Hes gin you mony Gown of Green,
|
and Gluts of Brandy.
|
I pity you poor Glasgow Kate,
|
Wha I ha kend both Air and Late,
|
Sit trembling at the Castle Gate,
|
in Frost and Hail,
|
Just for to get your common Fate,
|
a well paid Tail.
|
Im feard three Ghosts will haunt his Walls,
|
Mushets, Blairs and Peggie Halls,
|
And when he sees such grim Cabals,
|
hell droop his Head,
|
The LORD have Mercy on his Saul,
|
theyll be his dead.
|
And when Cow Death shuts up his Een,
|
And hes laid where hell nere be seen,
|
Least he wear out of Memory clean,
|
upon his Grave,
|
That a my ken what Blade hes been,
|
these Lines Ingrave.
|
HEre lies the Head that Mischief plotted,
|
and Feet that Satans Erands trotted,
|
For greed of Gear, but when he got it,
|
O filthy Varlet,
|
He quickly ran thro every Grot o it,
|
wi some vile Harlot.
|
Banisht by Old Reikies Law,
|
For Rape and Murders twa,
|
The first was sent here awa,
|
and now hes dead.
|
He was the worst Sight ere we saw,
|
else Mony leed.
|
Since he was one of Satans Brood,
|
And never did the Thing was Good,
|
But often dyd his Hands in Blood,
|
for want of Grace,
|
Now he is gone as we conclude,
|
to a black Place.
|
|
|
|
|
|