Now, Chatto, you're a dreary place,
Pale sorrow broods on ilka face;
Therburn has run his race.
And now, and now, ah me, alas!
The carl lies dead.
Having his paternoster said,
He took a dram and went to bed;
He fell asleep, and death was glad
That he had catched him;
For Therburn was e'en ill bested,
That none did watch him.
For had the carl but been aware,
That meagre death, who none does spare,
T'attempt sic things should ever dare,
As stop his pipe;
He might have come to flee or scare;
The greedy gripe.
How he'd had but a gill or twae,
Death would nae got the victory sae,
Nor put poor Therburn o'er the brae,
Into the grave;
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . [1]
The fumbling fellow, some folks say,
Should be jobbed on baith night and day;
She had without'en better play,
Remained still,
Barren for ever and for aye,
Do what he will.
Therefore they say he got some help
In getting of the little whelp;
But passing that, it makes me yelp,
But what remead?
Death lent him sic a cursed skelp,
That now he's dead.
Therburn, for evermore farewell,
And be thy grave both dry and deep;
And rest thy carcase soft and well,
Free from . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . no night . . . . . .
Disturb . . . . . . . . . . . .
