Elegy on Jamie Gemmill, tailor

ELEGY

on

Jamie Gemmill,

TAILOR.

Printed this Year.

ELEGY

on

JAMIE GEMMILL

 

 

Knichts of the thumle far an’ near,
Unto my tale pray lend an’ ear,
It frae your e’e will draw the tear
⁠Wi’ muckle speed,
As soon the waefu' tale ye hear
⁠That Jamie’s dead.

O reader, cam he e’er to thee,
An’ winkin’ at you wi’ his e'e,
Saying will tu gie me a bawbee
⁠To get a glass;
For whilk ye wad in a moment see
⁠Him on his arse.

Or hae ye seen him on the street,
Wi’ twa auld bauchles on his feet,
Gaun todlin thro’ the rain an’ weet
⁠Like wan’ring jew,
To see gin he wad chance to meet
⁠A frien’ sae true.

As bid him come and get a gill,
Or yet a drink o’ nappy yill;
For Jamie weel coud drink his fill
⁠O’ them I trew;
And laith was he to rise, until
⁠He did get fou.

Or hae ye seen him sittin’ crackin,
In Tammy’s Taproom ower a chappin,
For to keep a’ the company lauchin
⁠He was na laith,
By tellin them he breeks wad mak them
⁠Without the claith.

Or hae ye taen him to yer hame,
To mak claes for yersel or wean?
An' bottle by his side has lain
⁠O’ reemin nappy,
That Jamie ilka noo and then
⁠Micht tak a drappy.

For Jamie weel coud use the thumle,
An' was wi’ needle aye fu’ nimle,
An ne’er about the price wad grumle
⁠O’ ony job,
But aft wad drink until he’d tumle
⁠Clean aff the broad.

But noo alas! puir Jamie’s gane,
Like mony mae to his lang hame;
An’ in the cauld kirk yard is lan
⁠Past a’ remead,
Nae mair for to return again
⁠Sin’ he is dead.

Nae mair about the corse ye’ll see ⟨him⟩
Nae mair a bawbee will ye gie him,
Nae mair his hat he’ll gar flee frae ⟨him⟩
⁠Upon the street,
An’ cry noo Jamie Gemmill gie ⟨them⟩
⁠The Tailor’s leap.

But noo I maun lay doun my pen,
An’ to my verses mak an' en’,
Whare’er he’s gaen weel may he ⟨fen⟩
⁠An' let ilk chiel
Unto his prayer say Amen,
⁠Sae fare ye weel.

 

EPITAPH.

Here in this Kirk yard
There lieth interr’d
⁠The Body of wee Jamie ⟨Gemmill⟩
Who on earth was aye frisky
Wi' drinkin’ o’ whisky ;
An' wi’ needle an’ thread
⁠Was fu' nimle.

But ae day alas!
When takin' a glass.
Death cam and awa
⁠Wi' him jumpet;
An’ noo here he lies,
Till the dead shall arise,
At the soun' o' the
⁠Archangel’s trumpet.

 

FINIS.

 

PER CONTRA.

Dry your tears and cease your ⟨grievin⟩
Jamie Gemmill yet is leevin;
If a glass ye’d like to gie him,
At the Corse ye‘ll ablins see him.