Whan we were wearied at the gouff, Then Maggy Johnston’s was our houff, Now a’ our gamesters may sit douff, Wi’ hearts like lead. Death wi’ his rung reach’d her a youff, An’ sae she’s dead. Maun we be forc’d thy skill to tine, For which we will right sair repine? Or hast thou left to bairns o’ thine, The pauky knack, O brewing ale amaist like wine, That gar’d us crack? Sae brawly did a pease-scon toast. Biz i’ the quaff, and flee the frost, There we gat fu’ wi’ little cost, An’ muckle speed; Now wae worth death, our sport’s a’ lost, Since Maggy’s dead. Ae summer night I was sae fu’, Amang the riggs I gaed to spew, Syne down on a green bank I trow, I took a nap, An’ sought a night balillilu, As soun’s a tap. An’ whan the dawn began to glow, I hirsled up my dizzy pow, Frae ’mang the corn like worry-kow, Wi’ banes fu’ sair, An’ kend nae mair than if a yow, How I came there. Some said it was the pith o’ broom, That she stow’d in her masking loom, Which in our heads rais’d sic a foom, Or some wild seed, Which aft the chappen-stoup did toom, But fill’d our head. But now since ’tis sae that we must, Not in the best ale put our trust, But when we’re auld return to dust, Without remead; Why should we tak’ it in disgust, Since Maggy’s dead. O’ wardly comforts she was rife, An’ liv’d a lang and hearty life, Right free o’ care, or toil, or strife, Till she was stale; An’ kend to be a canny wife At brewing ale. Then farewell Maggy, douce and fell, O’ brewers a’ ye bore the bell; Let a’ your gossips yelp and yell, An’ without feed, Guess whither ye’re in heaven or hell, They’re sure ye’re dead. FINIS. ODDS AND ENDS, OR, A GROAT’S-WORTH OF FUN FOR A PENNY. Being a Collection of the best Jokes, Comic Stories, Anecdotes, BonMots, &c. [Illustration] The Piper who was carried away for dead during the Plague in London, but revived before interment.--See p. 22. PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS. A GROAT’S-WORTH OF FUN FOR A PENNY. A Sailor taking a walk in a field, observed a bull rapidly advancing towards him--‘Helm a-lee, messmate,’ he cried out at the top of his voice. The bull, however, probably not comprehending the injunction, speedily levelled his adviser with the ground. ‘There, you stupid,’ said the tar, as he raised himself, evidently more in sorrow than in anger, on his elbow, ‘didn’t I tell you you’d run foul of me.’