The carrion craw she was not slack, Aw cled into her mourning weed, With her resorted mony a mack Of greedy kite and hungry gleede.
When they were aw conven’d compleat, And every yean had taen their place; So rudely they fell tea their meat, But nane thought on to say the grace.
Some rip’d her ribs, some pluck’d her face, Nae bit of her was to be seen; Sir Ingram Corby in that place, Himself he pick’d out baith her eyne.
But wait ye what an a chance befel, When they were at this jolly chear, Sir William Bark, I can you tell, He unexpected lighted there.
Put aw the feasters in sike a fear, Some hopt away, some flew aside, There was not ane durst come him near, Nay not sir Corby, nor his bride.
He came not with a single side, For mony a tike did him attend, I wait he was no puft we pride, As you shall hear before I end.
See rudely they fell to the meat, But napkin, trencher, salt, or knife; Some to the head, some to the feet, While banes geud bare there was na strife.
In came there a tike, they cau’d him Grim, Sea greedily he did her gripe, But he rave out her belly-rim, And aw her puddings he made pipe.
Her lights, her liver, but an her tripe, They lay all trailing upon the green; They were aw gane with a sudden wipe, Not any of them was to be seen.
But suddenly begeud a feast, And after that begeud a fray; The tikes that were baith weak and least, They carried aw the bats away.
And they that were of the weaker sort, They harl’d her through the paddock-peul, They leugh, and said it was good sport, When they had drest her like a feule.
Thus have you heard of Ecky’s mear, How pitifully she made her end; I write unto you far and near, Who says her death is no well penn’d.
I leave it to yoursel’s to mend, That chance the peur man need again; If it be ill penn’d it is well kend, I got as little for my ‘pain.’
Old Janus advances all cloathed in white, And his long-smother’d tempests sends forth; On the mountains cold bosom, as black as the night, Sinks the dark rolling clouds of the north.
In their winding sheets rob’d are the hills and the dales, And the verdure no longer is seen; Save where the slow streams wind their way thro’ the vales, With their margins besprinkled with green.