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James Thomson - An Elegy Upon James Therburn, In Chatto
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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 . . . . . . . . . . . .
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