A LAMENTABLE

ELEGY ON NICHOLAS,

THE KILLEIGH TAYLOR.

THY namesake * saw thy worth at last;
And took thee, faith, as a dead cast:
Thy revels and thy routs are past,

Ill-fated Nichol;

Auld don t thy carcase threw with haste Into his pickle.

Now you may deck the prince of soot With goodly clothes from head to foot, I ween he wants a new recruit ;

For since his fall

But an old pall.

He's got no tolerable suit,

• Old Nick (as we say).

†The old Don (explained in the preceding note).

Much good may this new custom do thee! May the coquettes of lowland woo thee, And am'rous scratch thy cheeks so ruddy With tooth and nail;

And when thou enter'st on thy study,

Bid thee all-hail!

Cæsar may want thy aid, sir, there;
Or Alexander, the great bear,

Pawn his lank knapsack in despair,

To get thee credit:

For authors say, queer clothes they wear,

As you may read it.

We'll give thee joy of thy free trade.
May'st thou by Satan be well paid :
And never be by duns dismay'd;

Save now and then,

By some fair brimstone-blooded jade !—

John says,Amen.'

What pompous words thy tongue adorn'd!

For monosyllables were scorn'd.

Full many a husband hast thou horn'd;

For which sweet sport,

Forefend you be not now suborn'd

In Pluto's court!

At Andrew's shall thy praise remain,
While ale is made of malt and grain,
While Johnnie trembles at the dean:

Ev'n, Nic, so long

Shall bards thy hapless fate complain

In lofty song.

What though the Killeigh knell be broke?
Kind memory shall thy name invoke,
And every jovial heart of oak

Inscribe thy stone

With epitaphs, at whose each stroke

The De'il wou'd groan.

Fu' long shall Marks* thy merit tell,
And Hugh recount thy gambols well :
For in sly pranks thou bor'st the bell,

And wouldst succeed;

Whilst Gragueall* cries, in sad farewell,

'Nick Surlock's dead.'

O matchless taylor, whose bra + clothes Would swathe so fine the country beaus!

* Marks and Gragueall, two of his village friends.

Must death thus take thee by the nose,

And pinch it red;

While boys resound, in tuneful woes,

'Our taylor's dead?'

When the old surly haughre* came,
Why didst thou not defend thy fame;
His dog's-ears with thy scissars maim,
Or hurl thy goose

?

Ah, no! poor wight, thou went'st quite tame Into his noose.

'Done-over taylor, art thou now:
A cold stone on thy weam below,
Knock'd by thy rude carniv'rous foe

Upon the head;

Ah! soon shall ill-made garments shew,

Nice Nick is dead.

* Death.

THE DEATH OF POOR DAVIE,

THE KILLEIGH PIPER.

COME all ye jolly folks of Killeigh,
And ponder on the tale I tell ye :
Relinquish Susan, Kate, and Nelly,

And droop the head;

Grim Death has stopt your piper's gullie ;

Poor Davie's dead.

*

Wae's me! no more shall thy stuff'd pudding + Set heels quick stamping on a sudden,

And fill the hearts of Giles and Cudden

With huge delight:

Just when the rose of life was budding,

Came a fell blight.

Oft have I heard your windy music
Till it would make both me and you sick,

* Throat.

+ Bagpipe.

VOL. I.

L