Wold you please to hear of a sang of dule, Of yea sad chance and pittifow case, Makes the peur man powt through many a pule, And leuk on mony an unkend face? Between the Yule but and the Pasch, In a private place, where as I lay, I heard ane sigh, and cry, alas! What shall I outher dea or say? A man that’s born of a middle-yeard wight, For wealth or pelth can no be secure; For he may have enough at night, And the next morn he may be fow peur. I speak this by a Northumberland man, The proverb’s true proves by himself; Since the horse-couping he began, He had great cause to crack of wealth. Of galloways he was well stockt, What some part first, what some part last; But I’ll no speak much to his praise, For some of them gat o’re lang a fast. Some of them gat a shrowish cast, Which was nae teaken of much pelth; But yet he hopes, if life dea last, To see the day to crack of welth. But aye the warst cast still comes last, He had nae geuds left but a Mear, There was mair diseases did her attend Nor I can name in half a year. If Markham he himself was here, A famous farrier although he be, It wad set aw his wits astear To reckon her diseases in their degree. But her sicknesses we’ll set aside, Now tauk we of the peur man’s cost, And how she lev’d, and how she died, And how his labour aw was lost. In the winter-time she took a hoast, And aw whilk while she was noe weell; But yet her stomach ne’er was lost, Although she never had her heal. Now for her feud she went so yare, An the fiend had been a truss of hey, She wad a swallowed him and mickle mare, Bequeen the night but an the dey. The peur man cries out Armyes aye, I see that she’s noe like to mend, She beggers me with haver and hey, I wish her some untimous end. Nae sooner pray’d, but as soon heard, She touck a fawing down behind, She wad a thousand men a scar’d, To have felt her how she fill’d the wind. Her master he went out at night, Of whilk he had oft mickle need, He left her neane her bed to right, Nor neane for to had up her head. Next day when he came to the town, He ran to see his mear with speed, He thought she had fawn in a swoon, But when he try’d she was cald dead. It’s ever alas! but what remeed, Had she play’d me this at Michaelmas, It wad a studden me in geud steed, And sav’d me both yeats, hay and grass. There’s ne’er an elf in aw the town, That hardly weell can say his creed, But he will swear a solemn oath, Crack o’ wealth Ecky’s mear cau’d dead. Lad, wilt thou for Hob Trumble run? I ken he will come at my need; That seun he may take off her skin, For I mun leeve though she be dead. Now straight he came with knife in hand, He flead her fra the top to th’ tail, He left nae mare skin on her aw Then wad been a heudin to a flail.