Elegy on the Long Expected Death of a Wretched Miser

"My soul—my all—my siller's fled!
Fled wi' a base confounded limmer
O grief o' griefs! alake, my head
My head rins roun', my een grow dimmer.

Wi' meikle, meikle faught and care,
And mony a lang night's fell vexation,
I toil'd, and watch'd to keepit there,
And now I'm left in black starvation.

My meal, like snaw afore the sin,
It's aye ga'n doon and aye beginning,
Lade after lade she orders in,
And than for trash she's ever rinning.

A' day she'll drink and flyte and roar,
A' night she tears me wi’ her talons,
And gin I crawl but frae the door
I'm hunted hame wi' dogs and callans.

My sons, wi' chanler chasts gape roun',
To rive my geir, my siller frae me;
While lice and fleas, and vermin brown,
Thrang in my sarks, eternal flae me.

Ye precious remnants! curst to me;
Ye dearest gifts to John e'er given,
Wi' you I've lived, wi' you I'll die,
Wi' you I'll gang to H—ll or Heaven."

He spak'; and on the vera spot,
Ramt goud and notes, wi' trem'ling hurry,
In han'fu's' down his gorged-up throat,
While blude lap frae his een in fury.

I saw wi’ dread, and ran my lane,
To clear his throat and easie his breathing;
But ere I reach’t he gied a grane,
And lifeless lay alang the leathing.