PART I.
Some Dominies are sae bias’d,
That o’er the dyke themsells they cast,
They drink an’ rant, an’ live sae fast,
This drives them on,
To draw a weapon at the last,
That sticks Mess John.
Thus going on from day to day,
Neglecting still to watch and pray,
And teach the little anes A, B, C,
An’ Pater Noster,
Quite ither thoughts our Lettergae,
Begins to foster.
For, laying by baith fear and shame,
They slily venture on that game,
All Fours, I think, they call’t by name,
Baith auld an’ rife,
Than in the play, Mess John is slain
Wi’ his ain knife.
’Tis kind, therefore, I winna strive
My doughty deeds here to descrive,
A lightsome life still did I thrive,
Did never itch,
By out an’ in abouts to drive,
For to mak rich.
I ne’er laid money up in store,
Into a hole behind the door,
A shilling, penny, less or more,
I aye did scatter,
’Tis just, now, I should drink, therefore,
Sma’ beer or water.
I never sooner siller got,
But a’ my pouches it would plot,
And scorch them fair, it was sae hot;
Then to get clear
Of it, I swill’d it down my throat,
In ale or beer.
Thus, a’ my failing was my glass,
An’ anes to please a bonny lass,
I, like a silly amorous ass,
Drew forth my gully,
An’ through an’ through at the first pass,
Ran Mr. Willy.
Sae far this mad, though merry fit,
I was sair vexed, and forced to flit,
They plagu’d me sae wi’ pay and sit,
Quo’ they, You thief,
How durst you try to steal a bit
Forbidden beef?
O then, I humbly plead that vos,
Would make it your continual mos,
Wi’ hearts sincere an’ open os,
You’d often pray,
A tali malo libera nos,
O Dominie.
For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think,
Since I left handling pen an’ ink:
Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink
He lik’d sae weel,
He drank it a’, left not a clink
His throat to swill.
He lik’d, still sitting on his doup,
To view the pint or cutty stoup,
And sometimes lasses overcoup,
Upo’ their keels,
This made the lad at length to loup,
And tak his heels.
Then was it not a grand presumption,
To ca’ him doctor o’ the function?
He dealt too much in barley-unction
For his profession:
He never took a good injunction
Frae kirk or session.
An’ to attend, he was not willing,
His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling,
But lov’d to be where there was filling
Good punch or ale,
For him to rise was just like killing
Or first to fail.
His fishing-wand, his sneeshing box,
A fowling piece, to shoot muir cocks,
An’ hunting hare through craigs and rocks,
This was his game,
Still left the young anes, so the fox
Might worry them.
When he committed a’ these tricks,
For which he weel deserv’d his licks,
Wi’ red-coats he did intermix,
When he foresaw
The punishment the kirk inflicts
On fowks that fa’.
Then to his thrift he bade adieu,
When wi’ his tail he stopp’d his mou’,
He changed his coat to red and blue,
An’ like a sot
Did the poor Clerk convert into
A Royal Scot.
An’ now fowks use me at their wills,
My name is blawn out o’er the hills,
At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills,
’Twixt each, Here’s t’ thee,
’Tis sore traduc’d at kilns and mills,
And common smithy.
Then, Dominies, I you beseech,
Keep very far from Bacchus’ reach,
He drown’d a’ my cares to preach,
Wi’ his ma’t-bree,
I’ve wore sair banes by mony a bleech
O’ his tap-tree.
If venus does possess your mind,
Her antics ten times warse ye’ll find,
For to ill tricks she’s sae inclin’d,
For praticks past,
She blew me here before the wind:
Cauld be her cast.
Within years less than half a dizen,
She made poor Maggy lie in jizen,
When little Jock brake out of prison
On gude yule-day,
This of my quiet cut the wisen,
Whan he wan gae.
Let readers then tak better heed,
For fear they kiss mair than they read,
In case they wear the sacken weed,
For fornication,
Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead
For procreation.
The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame,
Have nae aversion to the game,
But better ’twere to tak her hame,
Their pot to cook,
An’ teach his boys to write a theme,
And mind their book.
Then may they sit at hame, an’ please,
Themselves wi’ gathering in their fees,
While I must face mine enemies,
Or shaw my dock:
There’s odds ’twixt handling pens wi’ ease
An’ a firelock.
Sae shall they never mount the stool,
Whereon the lasses greet an’ howl,
Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul,
Comes o’er their cheeks;
Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool,
Or mending breeks.
The Kirk then pardons no such prots,
They must tell down good five pounds scots,
Though they should pledge their petticoats,
An’ gae arse bare;
The least price there is twenty groats,
An’ prigging fair.
If then the lad does not her wed,
Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed,
Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad,
They fart an’ fling;
“O wow that e’er I made the bed,”
Then does she sing.
Thus for her Maidenhead she moans,
Bewailing what is past;
Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones,
And broken at the last.