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