A DIALOGUE between George Fachney and Alexan-
der Pennicuik.
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AE Time our Poet met wi Fackney,
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Whom he ance caud the Devils Hackney
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And fearing lest he shoud him quarrel,
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He hid himsel behind a Barrel.
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Now ye maun ken that he was drinking,
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Which he did ay whans Pouch was clinking.
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Then Geordie raisd a hideous Roar,
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And cryd, hes here, lets close the Door.
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He then fell to, to curse and ban,
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And in great Rage he thus began.
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GEORDIE.
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Now you base Scoundrel I have got ye,
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And be my Suth I winna quat ye,
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Till Im revengd on your dull Snout,
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For all these Lees thats gaun about;
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Ye was the Author I can swear,
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And for the same yes now pay dear.
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SANDY.
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Dear Sir, what gars you curse and ban?
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I neer did Harm to ony Man;
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I hated Quarrels a my Life,
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And lived always free of Strife;
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But you have put me in sick Fright,
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Ill kiss your A------se if yell me quit:
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And if of you Ive said ought ill,
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For that Ill now come in your Will.
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GEORDIE.
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I winna take sick sham Excuses
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Frae ony Man wha me abuses;
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Theres nane in Scotland, but what kens
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That ye hae gien me just Offence;
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Yeve publishd mony a lying Story,
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Thinking thereby to gain some Glory;
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And for to win a half a Crown,
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Yeve made my Name ring through the Town;
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Now in my Rage Ill on you fall,
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And pay ye soundly ance for all.
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SANDY.
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For my Wifes sake, let me a-be,
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And nae mae of my Lines yes see.
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If ye shoud take my scoundrel Life,
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What wad become of Bairns and Wife?
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A that I wrote was to get Bread,
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Or else I swear wed a been dead.
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GEORDIE.
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Whats that to me, ye silly Devil!
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If ye had been discreet and civil,
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Or if yed come and said to me,
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Dear Fackney I am like to die,
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I want some Cash to buy my Dinner,
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I wad hae gien yet, drunken Sinner.
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SANDY.
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Rather than trouble any Man,
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I wad use a the Means I can;
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But now to you, upon my Knees,
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I will confess my former Lies,
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And tho I shoud neer gain a Farthin,
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Ill own my Fault, and crave ye Pardon.
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GEORDY.
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A that is no enough to me,
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Yer Crimes sae great ye ought to die;
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For first of a, to win some Bodles,
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Ye said I burnt a Burgers Dodles:
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You base Whores Son, as langs I live
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These horrid Lies Ill neer forgive.
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Your Tears shall not your Crime attone,
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My P---k you said was naild to Trone;
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And then upon the Gallowlee
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You hanged baith Burnbank and me:
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And now of late, to my Amazement,
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Youve put me in Caldwells Regiement;
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And for to make your Nonsense pass,
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You stole your Rhimes from Hudibrass.
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For all these Faults now put together,
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Altho ye were my only Brother,
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Ye soud na stir out frae this Place,
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Tho it soud be to my Disgrace,
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Id make you for your Folly smart,
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And make my Sword run through your Heart.
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But seeing you my Pardon crave,
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And own yourself my humble Slave,
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Ill grant unto you your Petition,
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And save your Life on this Condition,
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That if ye eer again proclaim,
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Or publish through the Streets my Name,
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In ony Paper, Verse or Prose,
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Yell be content to lose yer Nose.
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SANDY.
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Content, quoth Sandy, if I do,
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May I be scurgd and hanged too.
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After this lang Debate and Quarrel,
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Sandy came out frae hind the Barrel;
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Syne baith the twa sat down together,
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And kisst and clapt ilk ane anither;
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And then fell to and drank sae clean,
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Till baith of them maist tint their Een;
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In short they baith fell to to spew,
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Well leave them here, and bid adieu.
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