ELEGY

ON AULD HARRY.

Death's scythe relentless shears awa
The best, and warst, and cares na wha;
An' nips frae 'mang the bizzie strife
The vera staufs o' social Life.

Now Harry's gane-Dear help us a'!
An' frae this warl' win awa;

The canny carle interr'd I saw

In yon yaird head,

Wha thro' the street guid coals dià ca';

But now he's dead.

Gair bodies a' now mak' yer mane,
For honest Harry, dead and gane,
O' carles his like he's left you nane,

To Paisley's loss,

To hurle you coals without a stane,

An' free o' dross.

What the' ill-natur'd carles crack,
That Harry whiles a lump coud tak',
An' slip it down at some dyke back,

To ser' himsel❜;

A' tales are never held for fack,

That clashers tell.

Tho' rife o' clink, the wily loun
A bodle hardly wad lay down,
But may be for a jug o' brown

To warm his breast,

Or ablins a sair-grudg'd hauf-crown,

To buy a beast.

His cowts, for faut o' fresh provision,
Made ay thro' Life a short transition;
What brutes e'er fell to his decision,

Sune clos'd their part ;'

Yet he ne'er fail'd a new edition

To fill his cart.

Sae friendly, join'd by social law,
Ae wee bit placie ser'd the twa;
Fu' sound aside auld brownie's sta'

He wad hae sleepit,

But wauken'd wi' the sunest craw,

Whan mornin' peepit.

Ae brute, they say, amang the lave,
Had taen a notion o' the grave;

An' tho' fu' tenderly he drave,

Baith here an' there,

The spavy'd creature never thrave

Wi' a' his care.

Sae whan it left its warly kin,

Some chield had bargain'd for the skin,
An' Harry thought it maist a sin,

Whan a' was doon,

To yird its legs baith fore an' hin'

Wi' four guid shoon.

He try'd the roustie nails to draw,
But out they wadna come ava,
Sae gat some hammer, ax, or saw,

Strain'd a' his pith,

Snegg'd hin' an' fore legs baith awa,

An' sav'd a Smith,

But gin sic odd-like tales be true,
I canna tell nae mair than you;
He was a carle match'd by few

For greed o' gear;

Howbe't he's dead an' buried now,

That's ae thing clear.

Tho' he had walth o' gather'd gowd,
Yet weel I wat he wasna proud,

He din'd on fare, plain, cheap, an' guid,

Like lights an' livers ;

Parritch, or brose, his mornin' food,

He laught at fevers.

His house nae palace was, I trow,
For mony a crack the rain ran thro',
While ilka blast o' win' that blew,

Sough'd thro' his biggin',

Soup'd down ilk cobwab as it grew,

An' tirr'd the riggin'.

His floor o' clay, fu' hard an' doure,
Wi' mony a lair o' dust clad o'er,

Το

soup or shool he hadna power,

layer

'Twas nae vexation,

A besom ne'er had mov'd the stoure

In gude's creation.

His duds, wi' mony a patch fu' gay,
O' a' the shades frae green to grey,
Ne'er brush'd but on a May Fair day,

Frae stoure an' soot,

War rubb'd down wi' the wisp o' strae

That clean'd his brute.

But now, my Muse, be on th' alert,
Dinna turn sick, but play your part,
Describe his face wi' a' your art,

As if ane see'd it,

An' tak' a dram, to keep your heart,

For fegs ye'll need it.

His face-his "human face divine".
Alas! we maun sic ruse decline;
For, whether Hottentot design,

Or, even, if human,

Or, if dug up frae some coal mine,

There's nae presumin'.

In vain its course the burnie ran ;
In vain was fill'd the saipman's pan :
Nor saip, nor water e'er it fan',

Nor smeek o' brunstane :

'Twas just a crust o' black japan,

As hard's a whunstane.

Wi' sweat, an' soot, an' slaiver sleek,
The blush was blacken'd on his cheek;
But, if the features mov'd to speak,

Whan thought wad strike him,

'Twas past the utmost power o' Greek

To paint ought like him.