And drunk the beer of Goody Cusack

Till darkness fled;

Now on your grave I must a yew stick;

Poor Davie's dead!

When Death, the gilligapus, stole
To pluck away thy gabby soul,
Had'st thou inspir'd thy tuneful hole

With skilful head,

He would have run like silly-foal;

But now thou'rt dead.

Southerne shall strew thy coal-black hearse

With epic Hudibrastic verse;

Thy praise in lofty lays rehearse,

And blath'ring rhyme;

Wow, he thy future fame shall nurse

In scrawls sublime.

To greyhound's tail he'll tie t thy glory,
And propagate the rev'rend story :
Fam'd as the famous John-a-Dory,

His song shall save ye ;

And tell to trimmer, whig, and tory,

Hic jacet Davie.

• Ah me, alas.

A custom he used to put in practice.

At wedding dinner when thou'st been,
With breeches red and cravat clean,
How thou would's tune thy engine keen;

And, droning loudly,

Set cats, maids, dogs, upon the green.

A prancing proudly!

Then, when the sheepskin cloth was spread, Grasp at the bacon white and red,

Against the tankard knock thy head,

Or spill the gravy;

While younkers laugh'd at a' you said,

Right hum'rous Davie.

Around thy tomb shall May-maids revel,
Scatt'ring sweet flow'rs to scare the devil,
And keep thy corse from nightly evil;

And bless the sod

Where shuffling Davie, blithe yet civil,

Lies cold as toad.

RECANTATORY POSTSCRIPT.

Be it known to all men, as I stumbled Towards Hughye's cot, and fell, and fumbled, Something I heard that strangely grumbled:

Amaz'd I canter;

Lest by the Fays I should be home led

Or Ariel's chanter.

However, I took heart o' grace,
And ken'd a noise i' that same place,

At which I blest myself with face

As pale as stone:

For I could swear, in any case,

'Twas Davie's drone.

So in I went, pry'd all about;
The people wonder'd at the rout:

At last, with one outrageous shout,

Unkennel'd Davie ;

So stunn'd, that scarce one word came out,

To say, 'God save ye.'

Like that madcap in Hamlet's play,

We star'd, and star'd our fears away;

And then sat down, full spruce and gay,

As sound as cherry:

And Davie's here this very day,

Alive and merry.

Though all the town, in well-feign'd sorrow, Swore Death had pink'd his body thorough, And laid him flatter than the furrow,

GUDE faith! with all thy roguish trick,
Thy Pegasus has got a kick;

Flat as a tomb-stone, dumb as stick,

Thou liest at last:

God send, thou gang'st not to old Nick

For frolics past.

I do remember thee right well:

Thou didst in witty pranks excel,

Can all thy deeds of sly note tell,

Thou great verse-fighter;

But ah! auld Death has borne the bell,
And bit the biter.

*

Right glum is all thy rhyming glee;
Struck mute, who wont to be so free:
Yet, yet shall I, on bended knee

(Faithfu' Achates +)

Drink to thy amorous memory;

Fine off'ring that is.

For thou didst long to taste the bowl:
And if from limbo-logwood whole,‡

I ken, thy jovial fluttering soul

Will snuff the vapours;

Gleam pure good humour o'er the whole,

And light the tapers.

'Bathe the delighted sprite §' in ale, Lie wedg'd in fiery' mugs, exhale The quintessence of pipes, and rail

At good old sages;

Flouting the de'il and his long tail

Silent.

In smoky pages.

#Sound, safe.

+Fides Achates.' Virgil.
§ Shakespeare: Measure for Measure.