Classic Poem

Death, unexpected, cry'd aloud,
" Pack up your awls, degen'rate CLAUD,
You're turn'd, like Woolsey, dev'lish proud,
Since rich like Herriot;
Yet in the yierd ye man be row'd,
You auld Iscariot. "

Quo' Claud, " What de'il needs a' your hurry,
It's far o'er soon my nest to herry,
For I've some thousands yet to marry,
Sae gae knock under
The Pope , Mufti , an' Canterbury ,
An' a' sic lumber.

I've done mair good in my vocation,
Than ony priest in a' the nation,
I'll instance here in population
The West Kirk parish,
What made it but my ha'f-mark station
In folk to flourish?

I've ty'd a score, which else might gizen,
Or e'er a bishop wad arisen,
Vile dominies, or sitter cuzzin,
An' parish-clerks;
While mony a day I've ty'd a dozen
For twa three marks.

The ancient trade o' basket-makin'
(Like water we dry yeard maun slokin;
E'en so, if love sent twa here packin',
Just for their courage,
Tho' in their purse was de'il ae plack in,
I've join'd in marriage.

I've set stale widows by the ears,
E'en snuffy maids crown'd wi' gray hairs,
Wi' deaf, blind, cripple bachelors,
The trade to try,
How to replenish lovely heirs,
An' multiply.

I eas'd the matrimonial tax,
Oppressively laid on our backs,
I mourn what crul Pitt exacts
Frae birth an' death,
I think this doctrine orthodox
Might save my breath.

" My message winnabide delay,
(Quo' death) this morning ye man die,
Tho' dead, your name it may outvie
Ilk rhyming bomer;
I've heard ye bragg'd in poetry
Ye dang auld Homer.

Guid troth, ye crack wi' far mair scorn
Than Buchan did, or Doctor Horn,
Wha lang did mak' my bread forlorn,
But shall nae mair,
For ye maun walk your pumps this morn,
Before its air.

When chiels at marriage took remorse,
Ye gat ilk bonny lass's curse,
For greed to fill your waly purse,
Them ye did souther,
Quickly you sell them a divorce,
Whilk bred a throw'ther.

Ye made great game o' me I wot,
When first your elegy ye wrote,
An' ere I fire this fatal shot,
Gae write anither,
Ye shanna cheat nae mair a Scot,
Nor earth your mither. "

Quo' Claud, " I leave that rhymning wark,
To my successor Doctor Clark;
But oh! I tremble at your fork,
Will no reprieve
Keep me yet frae oblivion dark,
Ten years to live.

Quo' Death, " Ye serv'd the Prince o' evil,
That help ye maun gae straight unravel, "
Sae Death hit Claud a dreadfu' devel,
Aboon the wame,
That wi' the groun' he did him level,
His cauld lang hame.

Now a' the Session-clerks are singin'
An' set the parish bells a-ringin';
For the auld trade it now will bring in
Great rowth o' gear, O
Sin' honest Death has ram'd a sting in
That rogue Clauders .

He had his properties an' failin's,
Some says he just was in his dealin's,
While scurvy rogues despis'd his sealin's,
It brak their bread,
In southrin' folk for twa three shillin's;
But now he's dead.

Cheap marriage gars lads gi'e o'er hope,
Sin' we have lost our Cowgate Pope,
Tho' he liv'd wi' that motley grope,
He took the lead,
To join a beggar, laird, or fop,
But now he's dead.

O' clergymen there was nae ony,
Succeeded sae in matrimony,
For he was ay a social crony,
When he did wed
Maggy wi' Pate, or Kate wi' Johnny,
But now he's dead.

The lasses seldom now convene,
To throw aff wanton gowns o' green;
They sit an' blear out a' their een,
In mournin' sad,
For taxes gard chields tak' the spleen,
Sin' Claud is dead.