AN
ELEGY
ON THE DEATH OF
JOCKEY'S MOTHER:
NOW a' body kens my mither's dead,
For weel I wat I bore her head,
And in the grave I saw her laid,
'Twas e'en right drole,
For her to change a warm fire side,
For a cauld kirk hole.
But ilk ane tell'st just like a sang,
That yon's the gate we've a' to gang,
For me to do't, I think nae lang,
If I can do better,
For I true my Mither think'st nae sang,
What need we clatter.
But thanks to death ay for the futer,
That didna let her get the Suter,
For 'bout her gear wad been a sputter,
And sae had been,
For he came ay snoking about her,
Late at een.
For our Maggy watch't and saw,
My Mither's back was at the wa',
And what was mair hach ha' hach ha',
I winna tell,
She to do yon stood little aw',
Just like mysell.
But to get gear was a' her drift,
And used many a pinging shift:
About her spinning and her thrift,
Was a' her care,
She's gotten but little abune the lift,
Wi' her to wear.
FINIS.
GLASGOW,
Printed by J. & M. Robertson, Saltmarket, 1801.
