William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Elegy on Maggie JohnstonAllan Ramsay (16861758)
A
Let forth o’ tears dreep like May-dew:
To braw tippeny bid adieu,
Which we wi’ greed
Bended as fast as she could brew,
But, ah! she’s dead.
O’ customers she had a bang;
For lairds and souters a’ did gang
To drink bedeen;
The barn and yard was aft sae thrang,
We took the green;
Syne sweetly ca’d the healths aroun’,
To bonny lasses, black or brown,
As we lo’ed best:
In bumpers we dull cares did drown,
And took our rest.
And took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links,
Aften in Maggie’s, at high-jinks,
We guzzled scuds,
Till we could scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks,
Cast aff our duds.
O wow, but we were blythe and fain!
When ony had their count mistane,
O it was nice!
To hear us a’ cry, ‘Pike ye’r bane
And spell ye’r dice.’
Until we did baith glower and guant,
… and yesk, and maunt,
Right swash I trow;
Then of auld stories we did cant
When we were fou.
Then Maggie Johnston’s was our howff;
Now a’ our gamesters may sit dowff,
Wi’ hearts like lead;
Death wi’ his rung rax’d her a yowff,
And sae she’s dead.
For which we will right sair rapine?
Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine
The pawky knack
O’ brewing ale a’maist like wine,
That gar’d us crack.
Biz i’ the queff, and fley and frost:
There we got fou wi’ little cost,
And meikle speed;
Now, wae worth Death! our sport’s a’ lost,
Since Maggie’s dead.
Amang the rigs I gaed to spue,
Syne down on a green bawk, I trow,
I took a nap,
And soucht a’ night balillilow,
As sound’s a tap.
I hirsled up my dizzy pow,
Frae ’mang the corn, like wirricow,
Wi’ banes sae sair,
And kenn’d nae mair than if a ewe
How I cam’ there.
That she stow’d in her masking-loom,
Which in our heads raised sic a foum;
Or some wild seed,
Which aft the chappin-stoup did toom,
But filled our head.
Not in the best ale put our trust,
But whan we’re auld return to dust,
Without remead,
Why should we tak’ it in disgust
That Maggie’s dead?
And lived a lang and hearty life,
Right free o’ care, or toil, or strife,
Till she was stale,
And kenn’d to be a canny wife,
At brewing ale.
O’ brewers a’ thou boor the bell:
Let a’ thy gossips yelp and yell,
And, without feid,
Guess whether ye’re in heaven or hell.
They’re sure ye’re dead.