Classic Poem

LUCKY SPENCE'S LAST ADVICE.

Three times the carline grain'd and rifted,
Then frae the cod her pow she lifted,
In bawdy policy well gifted,
When she now fan,
That death nae longer wad be shifted,
She thus began:

My loving lasses, I maun leave ye,
But dinna wi' your greeting grieve me,
Nor wi' your draunts and droning deave me,
But bring 's a gill:
For faith, my bairns, ye may believe me,
'T is 'gainst my will.

O black-ey'd Bess, and mim-mou'd Meg,
O'er good to work, or yet to beg,
Lay sunkets up for a sair leg;
For when ye fail,
Ye'r face will not be worth a feg,
Nor yet ye'r tail.

Whane'er ye meet a fool that 's fou,
That ye 're a maiden gar him trow,
Seem nice, but stick to him like glue;
And when set down,
Drive at the jango till he spew,
Syne he 'll sleep sown.

When he 's asleep, then dive and catch
His ready cash, his rings, or watch;
And gin he likes to light his match
At your spunk-box,
Ne'er stand to let the fumbling wretch
E'en take the pox.

Cleek a' ye can by hook or crook,
Ryp ilky pouch frae nook to nook;
Be sure to truff his pocket-book;
Saxty pounds Scots
Is nae deaf nits; in little bouk
Lie great bank notes.

To get amends of whindging fools,
That 's frighted for repenting-stools,
Wha often whan their metal cools,
Turn sweer to pay,
Gar the kirk-boxie hale the dools,
Anither day.

But dawt red-coats, and let them scoup,
Free for the fou of cutty stoup;
To gee them up, ye need na hope
E'er to do weel:
They 'll rive ye'r brats, and kick your doup,
And play the deel.

There 's ae sair cross attends the craft,
That curst correction-house, where aft
Wild hangy's taz ye'er riggings saft
Makes black and blae,
Enough to pit a body daft;
But what 'll ye say?

Nane gathers gear withoutten care,
Ilk pleasure has of pain a share;
Suppose then they should tirle ye bare,
And gar ye sike;
E'en learn to thole; 'tis very fair
Ye 're nibour like.

Forby, my looves, count upo' losses,
Ye'r milk-white teeth, and cheeks like roses,
Whan jet-black hair and brigs of noses
Faw down wi' dads,
To keep your hearts up 'neath sic crosses,
Set up for bawds.

Wi' well-crish'd loofs I hae been canty,
Whan e'er the lads wad fain ha'e faun t' ye,
To try the auld game taunty-raunty,
Like coosers keen,
They took advice of me, your aunty,
If ye were clean.

Then up I took my siller ca',
And whistl'd benn, whiles ane whiles twa;
Roun'd in his lug, that there was a
Poor country Kate,
As halesome as the wall of Spa,
But unka blate.

Sae when e'er company came in,
And were upo' a merry pin,
I slade awa' wi' little din,
And muckle mense,
Left conscience judge, it was a' ane
To Lucky Spence.

My bennison come on good doers,
Who spend their cash on bawds and whores;
May they ne'er want the wale of cures
For a sair snout;
Foul fa' the quacks wha that fire smoors,
And puts nae out.

My malison light ilka day
On them that drink and dinna pay,
But tak' a snack and run away;
May 't be their hap
Never to want a gonorrhea,
Or rotten clap.

Lass, gi'e us in anither gill,
A mutchken, jo, let 's tak' our fill;
Let Death syne registrate his bill
Whan I want sense,
I 'll slip away with better will,
Quo' Lucky Spence.