Haddingtonshire.
PRESTONPANS.
William Matthison here lies,
Whose age was forty-one,
February 17, he dies,
Went Isbel Mitchell from,
Who was his married wife
The fourth part of his life.
The soul it cannot die,
Though the body be turned to clay,
Yet meet again they must
At the last day.
Trumpet shall sound, archangels cry,
“Come forth Isbel Mitchell and meet Will
Matthison in the sky.”
HADDINGTON.
If modesty commend a wife
And Providence a mother,
Grave chastity a widow’s life,
We’ll not find such another
In Haddington as Mareon Gray,
Who here doth lie till the Domesday.
Hout, Atropos, heard-hearted hag,
To cut the sheugh o’ Jamie Craig!
For had he lived a wheen mae years
He’d been o’er teugh for thy auld shears.
But now he’s gane, sae maun we a’,
Wha wres’les Death’s aye shure to fa’;
Sae let us pray that we at last
May wun frae Death a canny cast.
ABERLADY.
“Here lies John Smith,
Whom Death slew, for all his pith
The starkest man in Aberlady,
God prepare and make us ready.
Lanarkshire.
GLASGOW.
Our life’s a flying shadow, God’s the pole,
The index pointing at him is our soul;
Death’s the horizon, when our sun is set,
Which will through Christ a resurrection get.
Here lies Mass Andrew Gray,
Of whom ne muckle good can I say:
He was ne Quaker, for he had ne spirit,
He was ne Papist, for he had ne merit.
He was ne Turk, for he drank muckle wine,
He was ne Jew, for he eat muckle swine.
Full forty years he preach’d and le’ed,
For which God doomed him when he de’ed.