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Of watery eyes there was great store,

For all did weep that did him see, He made the heart of many sore,

And I lamented for company.

To God above (quoth he) I call,

That sent his son to suffer death,
For to receive my sinful soul,
As soon as I shall lose

my

breath.

O God I have deserved death,

For deeds that I have done to thee, Yet never liv'd I like a thief,

Till I met with ill company.

For I may curse the dismal hour,

First time that I did give consent,
For to rob the King's Receiver,
And to take

away

his rent.

You gallants all be warned by me,

Learn cards anil dice for to refrain, Fly whores, eschew ill company,

For these three things will breed you pain.

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All earthly treasures are but vain,

And worldly wealth is vanity :
Search nothing else but heaven to gain,

Remember all that we must die.

Farewell good fellows, less and more,

Be not dismay'd at this my fall : I never did offend before,

John Musgrave all men did me call.

SECOND PART.

The bait beguiles the bonny fish,

Some care not what they swear or say; The lamb becomes the fox's dish,

When as the old sheep runs away: Down Plumpton Park as I did pass,

I heard a bird sing in a glen, The chiefest of her song it was,

Farewell the flower of serving-men.

The fowlers that the plovers get,

Take glistering glass their net to set ; The ferret, when the mouth is cop't,

Doth drive the coney to the net.

The pike devours the salmon free,

Which is a better fish than himself : Some care not how whose children cry

$u that themselves may keep their pelf. Farewell good people less and more,

Both great and small that did me ken, Farewell rich, and farewell poor,

And farewell all good serving men.

Now by my death I wish all know,

That this same lesson you may teach, Of what degree of high or low,

Climb not, I say, above your reach.

Good gentlemen, I you entreat,
That have more sons than

you

have land, In idleness do not them keep,

Teach them to labour with their hands.

For idleness is the root of evil,

And this sin never goes alone; But theft and robbery follows after,

As by myself is plainly shewn.

For youth and age will not understand

That friends in want they be but cold, If they spend their portions and lack land,

They may go beg when they are old.

Farewell, farewell, my brethren dear,

Sweet sisters make no dole for me, My death's at hand, I do not fear,

We are all mortal, and born to die.

1

I know that Christ did die for me,

No earthly pleasures would I have, I care not for the world a fly,

But mercy, Lord, of thee I crave.

Come, man of death, and do me right,

My glass is run, I cannot stay:
With Christ I hope to lodge this night,

And all good people for me pray.

The man of death his part did play,

Which made the tears blind many an eye He is with Christ, as I dare say,

The Lord grant us that so we may.

XXII.

« JOCKIE IS GROWNE A GENTLEMAN."

This Satire was most probably levelled against the nume

rous train of Scotch adventurers who wisely emigrated to England in the time of James the First, in the full expectation of being distinguished by the particular favour and patronage of their native sovereign. The realization of these hopes, and perhaps some disappointment of his own, excited the gall of the unknown Satirist, and produced this effusion. Its extreme rarity cannot be better exemplified than by simply stating, that no other copy of it was ever seen by Mr. Chalmers, whose knowledge respecting every subject of Scottish history and literature is proverbial: and the late Mr. Ritson absolutely questioned it's existence till he was convinced of his error by the production of the original. "The ensuing transcript is made from a very curious manuscript in the possession of the Rev. H. J. Todd, who has given an account of the other parts of the volume in his preliminary observations on the Sonnets of Milton.

Well

ELL met, Jockie, whether * away?
Shall we two have a worde or tway?
Thow was so lousie the other day,
How the devill comes thow so gay?

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,

Jockie is growne a gentleman. .* MS. Whether is the old spelling for whither, as in the 8th stanza also.

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