Classic Poem

ON MAGGY JOHNSTOUN.

Auld Reeky, mourn in sable hue,
Let fouth of tears dreep like May dew;
To braw tippony bid adieu,
Which we with greed
Bended as fast as she could brew: —
But ah! she 's dead.

To tell the truth now, Maggy dang,
Of customers she had a bang;
For lairds and souters a' did gang
To drink bedeen:
The barn and yard was aft sae thrang,
We took the green;

And there by dizens we lay down,
Syne sweetly ca'd the healths around,
To bonny lasses black or brown,
As we loo'd best:
In bumpers we dull cares did drown,
And took our rest.

When in our pouch we found some clinks,
And took a turn o'er Bruntsfield Links,
Aften in Maggy's, at hy-jinks,
We guzzled scuds,
Till we could scarce, wi' hale-out drinks,
Cast off our duds.

We drank, and drew, and fill'd again,
O wow! but we were blyth and fain,
When ony had their count mistain:
O it was nice
To hear us a' cry, " Pike ye'r bain,
" And spell ye'r dice. "

Fou closs we us'd to drink and rant,
Until we baith did glow'r and gaunt,
And pish, and spew, and yesk, and maunt,
Right swash I true;
Then of auld stories we did cant,
When we were fou.

When we were weary'd at the gowff,
Then Maggy Johnstoun's was our howff;
Now a' our gamesters may sit dowff,
Wi' hearts like lead;
Death wi' his rung rax'd her a yowff,
And sae she died.

Maun we be forc'd thy skill to tine,
For which we will right sair repine?
Or hast thou left to bairns of thine
The pawky knack
Of brewing ale amaist like wine,
That gar'd us crack.

Sae brawly did a pease-scon toast
Biz i' the queff, and flie the frost;
There we got fou wi' little cost,
And muckle speed:
Now wae worth death! our sport 's a' lost,
Since Maggy 's dead.

Ae summer night I was sae fou,
Amang the riggs I gaed to spew;
Syne down on a green bawk, I trow,
I took a nap,
And soucht a night balillilow,
As sound 's a tap.

And when the dawn begoud to glow,
I hirsl'd up my dizzy pow,
Frae 'mang the corn like wirrycow,
Wi' bains sae sair,
And ken'd nae mair than if a yow
How I came there.

Some said it was the pith of broom
That she stow'd in her masking-loom,
Which in our heads rais'd sic a soom;
Or some wild seed,
Which aft the chaping stoup did toom,
But fill'd our head.

But now since 'tis sae that we must
Not in the best ale put our trust,
But whan we 're auld return to dust
Without remead,
Why should we tak it in disgust
That Maggy 's dead?

Of warldly comforts she was rife,
And liv'd a lang and hearty life,
Right free of care, or toil, or strife,
Till she was stale,
And ken'd to be a kanny wife
At brewing ale.

Then farewell, Maggy, douce and fell,
Of brewers a' thou beur the bell;
Let a' thy gossies yelp and yell,
And without feed,
Guess whether ye 're in heav'n or hell,
They 're sure ye 're dead.


EPITAPH.

O RARE MAGGY JOHNSTOUN!