THE LIFE AND DEATH
OF THE
WEBSTERS MARE
Tune of, To the Weaver when you.
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IN Brichin did a Webster dwell,
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who was a Man of Fame,
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And was the Deacon of his Trade,
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John Steinson was his Name:
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A Mare he had, a lusty Jade,
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both sturdy, stark and strong,
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Both lusty and trusty,
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and he had spar'd her long.
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The Webster bad his Mare go work,
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quoth she, I am not able;
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For neither get I Corn nor Hay,
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nor stand I in a Stable;
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But hunts me and dunts me,
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and dings me from the Town,
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And fells me, and tells me
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I am not worth my r[o]om.
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The Webster swore a bloody Oath,
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and out he drew a Knife,
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If one word come out of thy Head,
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I vow I'll take thy Life.
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The Mare ay, for fear ay,
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fell fainting to the Ground,
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And groaning and moaning,
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fell in a deadly Swoond.
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They clipped her, they nipped her,
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they took from her the Skin,
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The Haunshes and the Penshes
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they quickly brought them in:
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Make haste Dame, quoth he,
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and wash this Grease and dry it,
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For I will hazard on my Life
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the Doctor's Wife [will] buy it.
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They rumbled her, they tumbled her,
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they shot her o'er the Brae,
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With rumbling and tumbling,
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she to the Ground did gae:
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But the Night being cald,
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and the Mare wanting her Skin;
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And Darkness came out o'er the Land
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and fain would she been in.
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She rapped and she chapped
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with her two forther Hoves,
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They heared and feared,
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and thought it had been Thieves:
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The Webster's Son was stout in Heart,
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he ran unto the Door,
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And thrust a Spear into the Mare,
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five quarters long and more.
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The Door ay, with more ay,
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they closed hastily,
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And trembling and shaking,
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and then for Help did cry.
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What ails thee my Son, he says,
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O! tell me if thou can:
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Ah and alas Father! he says,
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for I have kill'd a Man:
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If Magistrats and Senatours
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get knowledge of this Deed,
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They'll hang us and fine us
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without any remead.
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Then they run all unto the Door
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to bury the Man for fear,
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But when they came unto the Door
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they found it was the Mare.
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Go hast you, I request you,
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and tell my Father dear,
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What will we, or shall we,
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do with this wicked Mare.
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O! hold thy Tongue my Son, he says,
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I think you are a Fool,
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I wish she had hung in her Cords,
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we'll eat her again Youl.
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We'll wash her, and we'll dash her;
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she's all smir'd o'er with Dub,
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We'll wring her and sling her,
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and salt her in a Tub:
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And we'll cry in our Neighbours all,
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and bid them all come in,
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John Duncanson, John Davidson
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and kind Pettie Grin;
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And Tamy Mill come if thou wi[lt]
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and bear good Company,
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For we shall have a merry Feast,
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and we shall merry be.
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On Christmass day this greazy [lot?]
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did all conveen in haste.
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The hail Tribe of Yarn-stealers [there?]
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came all unto the Feast:
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They eat and drank, and made a R[ow?]
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till they beshit the Stool:
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All Terms's good, I do conclude,
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and bid you now farewel.
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