SUTHERLAND'S Lament, for the
loss of his Post.
WITH HIS
Advice to John Daglees his Successor.
|
I Think Auld Reikies now grown Daft,
|
To change my Lord Provo so aft,
|
For ae poor shot o' wrang cad Waft,
|
They've Banish'r me:
|
I was the Deacon o' my Craft,
|
An boor the Gree.
|
For when the Throng I marched thro
|
Wi' a bair Breast just like a Beaw,
|
All ran to see my Lord Provo,
|
And did Admire:
|
But with a bair Back now I go,
|
To get my Hire
|
When ance I Whiped Nannie Fender,
|
To let them see I was na tender,
|
Many a lusty Lick I lend her,
|
On her bair Back.
|
Till a the Folk cry'd out he'l end her,
|
At ilk a Whake.
|
But Peas for Beans O Dool! O Dool!
|
I'm Whiped now at my aun School,
|
E'r I were lade Just like a Fool,
|
Thro' a the Town!
|
I'd fit Ten Sundays on the Stool,
|
And wear the Gown.
|
Now if this Fashon come to Town,
|
To Wheep ilk ane that plays the Lown,
|
Wi' any Man I'l lay a Crown,
|
I'm sure he'l Los't.
|
They'l bring some English Artist down,
|
To get the Post.
|
At last I judg'd a Wife my fell,
|
And wheep't her where she wad na tell,
|
Till in came the Good Man him fell,
|
Made ilka Stroak,
|
Ring louder than the Common Bell,
|
E'r Nine a Clock.
|
And just like a Poor silly Soat,
|
I've lost my Labor and my Coat,
|
They might as well a Cut my throat,
|
Henrys Death,
|
Poor Man he was no worth a Groat,
|
At his last Breath
|
My Credits gon and nothing for't,
|
But Forty pound and a bass Mort,
|
As Common as the Comgate Port,
|
Or Leith stage Coach,
|
I've play'd my self a bonny Sport,
|
O sad Reproach
|
The D---l has made me now as poor,
|
As Job, and just like a bair Moor
|
Left Nothing: But a Common-Whoor
|
To me behind.
|
She'l be my Death, I'm very sure;
|
An that ye'l find
|
Now take my Councill John Dalgeess,
|
Ne're Spare them tho' your Loof they Grees
|
Bring off the Skin Just like a flees,
|
At ilke Tost,
|
For if you Chance to miss a Leish,
|
Ye'l lost your Post,
|
Wee'r Billies let us Never quarll,
|
you have my Post lend me your Barll,
|
I'le win ten Shillings an a far'll,
|
Ilkatweek,
|
Er Long I will have ten Pound Starll,
|
In ilke Breike.
|
Let's make a Barter, what's the Matter?
|
Drink ye good Ale, I man Drink Watter,
|
But if you chance to prove a Fater,
|
Aff go ye;
|
May they treat ilke Furnicator
|
As they've done me.
|
|
|
|
|
|