while our Maggy lasts; and for dieing there's nae fear o' that. But I'll no' get fair play if ye and a' the aulder fouk o' the parish be not dead before me: so I hae done wi' ye now.
AN EPITAPH.
Here lies the dust of John Bell's mither-
Against her will Death's brought her hither:
Clapt in this hole, hard by his daddy-
Death snatched her up or she was ready.
Lang might she liv'd, wer't not her weime;
But wha can live beyond their time?
There's nane laments her but the souter,
So here she lies looking about her.-
Looking about her! How can that be?-
Yes; she sees her state better than we.
AN ELEGY
On the Death of Jockey's Mither.
Now, be it kend my Mither's dead-
For weel I wat I bore her head,
And in the grave I saw her laid;
It was e'en drole.
For her to change a warm fire side
For a cauld kirk-hole.
But ilka 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 trow my mither thinks't nae sang-
What needs we clatter
But thanks to Death a' for the suiter,
That did not let her get the souter;-
About her gear there wad been a splutter,
And sae had been,
For he came ay snoaking about her
Late at e'en.
For dear Maggy watched and saw,
My mither's back was at the wa;
But what was mair, hach ha! hach ha!
I winna tell.
She to do yon stood little awe-
Just like mysell.
But to get gear was a' her drift,
And used monie a pinging shift;
About her spinning and her thrift,
Was a' her care,
She’s gotten little o't, boon the lift.Wi' her to ware.
FINIS.
