# Dominie depos'd/The dominie depos'd

THE
PREFACE.
IF this offend when ye peruse, Pray, Reader, let this me excuse, Mysell I only here accuse, Who am the cause, That e'er ye had this piece of news. To split your jaws.
For had I right the gully guided, And wi' a wife mysell provided, To keep me frae that, wae betide it, That's kent to a', I'd staid at hame, or near beside it; Now that's awa.
Be wiser then, and do what's right, And mind your business wi' might, Lest unexpected gloomy night Shou'd you surround, An mingle a' your pleasure bright Wi' grief profound.
And, bonny lasses, mind this rhyme, As true as three and sax mak nine, If ye commit ye ken what crime, vAnd turn unweel, There'll something wamble in your wame, Just like an eel.
THE
Dominie Depos'd.
PART 1.
Some Dominies are sae biass’d, That o’er the dyke themsells they cast, They drink an’ rant, an’ live sae fast, This drives them on To draw a weapon at the last, That sticks Mess John.
Thus going on from day to day, Neglecting still to watch and pray, And teach the little anes A, B, C, An’ Pater Noster, Quite ither thoughts our Lettergae Begins to foster.
For, laying bye baith fear and shame, They slily venture on that game, All fours I think they call’t by name, Baith auld an’ rife, That in the play Mess John is slain Wi’ his ain knife.
’Tis kend, therefore I winna strive My doughty deeds here to descrive, A lightsome life still did I drive, Did never itch, By out an’ in abouts to drive, For to mak rich.
​I ne’er laid money up in store, Into a hole behind the door, A shilling, penny, less or more, I did it scatter; ’Tis just, now, I should drink, therefore, Sma’ beer or water.
I never sooner siller got, But a’ my pouches it would plot, And scorch them sair, it was sae hot; Then to get clear Of it, I swill’d it down my throat, In ale or beer.
Thus, a’ my failing was my glass, An’ anes, to please a bonny lass, I, like a silly amorous ass, Drew forth my gully, An’ thro’ an’ thro’ at the first pass Ran Mr. Willy.
Sae for this mad though merry fit, I was sair vex’d, and forc’d to flit, They plagu’d me sae wi pay and fit. Quo’ they, You thief, How durst you try to steal a bit Forbidden beef?
O then I humbly plead that vos Would make it your continual mos, Wi’ hearts sincere an’ open os, You’d often pray, A tali malo libra nos, O Domine.
​For, hark, I’ll tell you what they think, Since I left handling pen an’ ink, Wae worth that weary soup o’ drink He lik’d sae weel, He drank it a’, left not a clink His throat to swill.
He lik’d, still sitting on his doup, To view the pint or cutty stoup, And sometimes lasses overcoup Upo’ their keels ; This made the lad at length to loup, And tak his heels.
Then was it not a grand presumption To ca’ him Doctor o’ the function? He dealt too much in barley-unction For his profession: He never took a good injunction Frae kirk or session.
And to attend he was not willing, His school, sae lang’s he had a shilling, But lov’d to be where there was filling Good punch or ale; For him to rise was just like killing, Or first to fail.
His fishing wand, his sneeshing box, A fowling-piece, to shoot muir-cocks. And hunting hares thro’ craigs and rocks. This was his game, Still left the young anes, so the fox Might worry them.
​When he committed all these tiicks, For which he weel deserv’d his licks, Wi’ red coats he did intermix, When he foresaw The punishment the kirk inflicts On fowks that fa’.
Then to his thrift he bade adieu, When wi’ his tail he stopp’d his mou’. He chang’d his coat to red and blue, And like a sot Did the poor Clerk convert into A Royal Scot.
And now fowks use me at their wills, My name is blawn out-o’er the hills, At banquets, feasts, a’ mouths it fills, ’Twixt each here’s t’thee. It’s sore traduc’d at kilns and milns, And common smithy.
Then Dominies, I you beseech, Keep very far from Bacchus’ reach, He drowned a’ my cares to preach, Wi’ his maut bree, I’ve wore sair banes by mony a bleech O’ his tap-tree:
If Venus does possess your mind, Her anticks ten times warse ye’ll find, For to ill tricks she’s ay inclin’d, For proticks past, She blew me here before the wind; Cauld be her cast.
​Within years less than half a dizen, She made poor Maggy lie in jizen, When little Jack brake out o’ prison On gude Yule-day, This of my quiet cut the wizen, When he wan gae.
Let readers, then, tak better heed, For fear they kiss mair than they read, In case they wear the sacken-weed For fornication, Or leave the priest-craft shot to dead For procreation.
The maist o’ them, like blind an’ lame, Have nae aversion to the game, But better ’twere to tak her hame, Their pot to cook, And teach his boys to write a theme, And mind their book.
Then may they sit at hame and please Themsells wi’ gathering in their fees, While I must face mine enemies, Or shaw my dock; There’s odds’ twixt handling pens wi’ ease And a firelock.
Sae shall they never mount the stool, Whereon the lasses greet and howl, Tho’ deil a tear, scarce fair or foul, Comes o’er their cheeks; Their mind’s not there, ’tis spinning wool, Or mending breeks.
​The Kirk then pardons no such prots, They must tell down good five pounds Scots, Tho’ they should pledge their petticoats, And gae arse bare; The least price there is twenty groats, And prigging sair.
If then the lad does not her wed, Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed, Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad, They fart and fling: “O wow that ere I made the bed,” Then does she sing.
Thus for her Maidenhead she moans, Bewailing what is past; Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones, And broken at the last.
PART II.
A’ maids, therefore, I do bemoan, Betwixt the rivers Dee and Don, If anes they get a lick o’ yon, Tho’ by the laird, The toy-mutch maun then gae on, Nae mair bare-hair’d.
Yet wanton Venus, that she bitch, Does a’ our senses sae bewitch, An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch, That aftentimes, There is nae help but to commit Some ill-far’d crimes.
​Yet some they are sae very willing, At ony time they’ll tak a shilling, But ha that learnt them first that spelling, Or Meg or Nell, Be sure, to him they’ll lay an egg in, This some can tell.
Unthinking things! it is their creed, If some sic things be done wi’ speed, They’re safe, ’tis help in time of need, Nae after claps; Tho’ nine months aft brings quick or dead Into their laps.
Experience thus makes me to speak, I ance was hooked wi’ the cleek, I almost had beshit my breek When Maggy told That, by her saul, not e’en a week Young Jack would hold.
She was sae stiff she could not lout; Your pranks, she says, are now found out, The Kirk and you maun hae a bout; Ill mat ye fare: ’Tis a’your ain, ye need na doubt, Ilk hilt and hair.
Alas! that e’er I saw your face, I can nae langer hide the case; Had I forseen this sad disgrace, Nae man nor you Shou’d e’er hae touch’d my sic a place. Or kiss’d my mou’.
​O Dominie, you're dispossest, Ye hae beshit your holy nest, The warld sees ye hae transgrest; I’m at my time, Ye dare nae mair, now do your best, Let gae the rhyme.
Ohon! how weel I might hae kent, When first to yon I gae consent, Wi’ me to make your merriment, How a’ would be: Alas! that e’er my loom I lent That day to thee.
Wae to the night I first began To mix my nioggans wi’ thee, man; ’Tis needless now to curse or ban, But deil hae me, Ye’ll pay, and fit, for fit ye can, And that ye’ll see.
I heard her as I heard her not, But time and place had quite forgot, I guess’d my piece was in the pot, For I could tell, It was too short her petticoat By half an ell.
Wi’ blubber’d cheeks, and watery nose, Her weary story she did close; I said the best, and aff I goes Just like a thief, And took a glass to interpose ’Twixt mirth and grief.
​Yet wou’d hae gien my half year’s fee, Had Maggy then been jesting me, Had tartan purry, meal an’ bree, Or butt’ry brose, Been kilting up her petticoats Aboon her hose.
But time, that tries such praticks past, Brought me out o’er the coals fu’ fast; Poor Maggy took a sudden blast An’ o’er did tumble, For something in her wame, at last, Began to rumble.
Our fouk caud it the windy gravel, That grips the guts beneath the navel, But faith she was for to unravel Their gross mistake, Weel kend she, that she was in travel Wi’ little Jack.
But, to put matters out of doubt, Young John within wou’d fain been out, An’ but an’ ben made sic a rout Wi’ hands an’ feet, That she began, twa-fald, about The house to creep.
Then dool an’ sorrow' interveen’d; For Jack nae langer cou’d be screen,d; My lass upon her breast she lean’d, An’ gae a skirl! The canny wives came there conveen’d A’ in a whirl.
​They wrought together in a croud; By this time I was under cloud; Yet bye an’ bye I understood, They made one more, For Jack he tun’d his pipe, an’ loud Wi’ cries did roar!
Wi’ that they blam’d the Session-Clark; Where is the lown hid in the dark? For he’s the father o’ this wark: Swear to his mither, He’s just as like him as ae lark Is like anither.
About me then there was a din, They sought me out thro’ thick and thin, Wi’ deil hae her, and deil hae him, He’s o’er the dyke; Our Dominie has now dung in His arse a-peek.
Ye may weel judge I was right sweer, This uncouth meeting to draw near, Yet forc’d I was then to appear, Altho’ perplex’d ; But listen now, an’ ye shall hear, The haggs me vex’d.
The carlings Maggy had so cleuked, Before young Jack was rightly hooked, They made her twice as little booked, But to gae on, O then! how like a fool I looked, When I saw John
​The Cummer then came to me bent, An’ gravely did my Son present; She bade me kiss him, be content, Then wish’d me joy; An’ tald it was—what luck had sent, A waly boy.
In ilka member, lith an’ llm’, Its mouth, its nose, its cheeks, its chin, 'Tis a’ like daddy, just like him, His very self, Tho’ it look’d canker’d, sour an’ grim, Like ony elf.
Then whisp’ring low, to me she harked, Indeed your hips they shou’d be yarked. Nae mair Mess John, nor dare ye clarkit, Faith ye hae ca’d Your hogs unto a bonny market Indeed my lad.
But tell me, man, I shou’d say master, What muckle deil in your way chas’d her? Lowns baith! but I think I hae plac’d her Now on her side; My coming here has not disgrac’d her, At the Yule tide.
An’ for yoursell, ye dare na look Hereafter ever on a book, Your mou’ about the psalms to crook : Ye’ve play’d the fool: Anither now your post maun bruik, An’ you the stool.
​She bann’d her saul, and then she blest it, In the Kirk-books it would be listed; An’ thus the weary wife insisted, Our Lettergae Will sit whar he will not be pisht at By dogs some day.
She wrung her hands until they cracked, An’ sadly me she sham’d an’ lacked— Ah man! the Priest, how will he tak it, Whan he hears tell, How Maggy’s mitten ye hae glaiket, Ye ken yoursell.
The Session Clark to play sic prankies, Ye’ll stan’, I fear, upo’ your shankies, An’ may be slaver in the brankies; It cou’dna miss, But lifting Maggy’s callimankies Wou’d turn to this.
A touthless Houdy, auld and tough, Says, Cummer, husht, we hae aneugh, Thirsh mony ane has touch’t the pleugh, Ash gude ash he, An’ yetch gane backlench o’er the heugh, Sae let him be.
Hesh no, quoth she, tho’ he’sh be lear’d, That ye ken what, they hae crept near’t, For you an’ I hash aftimes heard O’ nine or ten, Wha thush the Clergy hath beshmear’d Wi’ their ain Pen.
​The auld mou’d wives thus did me taunt, Tho’ a’ was true, I must needs grant, But ae thing maistly made me faint, Poor Meg lay still, An’ look’d as loesome as a saint That kend nae ill.
Then a’ the giglets young and gaudy, Sware by their sauls, I might be wady, For getting sic a lusty laddy, Sae like mysell; An’ made me blush wi’ speaking baudy, ’Bout what befel.
Thus auld and young their verdict had, ’Bout Maggy’s being brought to bed; I thought my fill, yet little said, Or had to say, To reap the fruit o’ sic a trade On gude Yule-day
What sometimes in the mou’ is sweet, Turns bitter in the wame; I grumbl’d sair to get the geet, At sic a merry time.
PART III.
Now Maggy’s twasome in a swoon, A counsel held condemns the lown, The cushle mushle thus gaed roun’, Our bonny Clark, He’ll get the dud an’ sacken gown, That ugly sark.
​Consider, sirs, now this his crime, ’Tis no like hers, or yours, or mine, He’s just next thing to a divine, An’ wow, ’tis odd, Sic men shou’d a’ their senses tine, An’ fear o’ God.
’Tis strange what makes kirk-fouk sae stupit, To mak or meddle wi’ the fuca’it, Or mint to preach in sic a pu’pit, The senseless fools: Far better for them hunt the tyouchet, Or teaeh their schools.
They hunt about frae house to house, Just as a taylor hunts a louse, Still girding at the barley-juice, An’ aft get drunk, They plump into some open sluice, Where a’ is sunk.
A plague upo’ that oil o’ ma’t, That weary drink is a’ their fau’t, It made our Dominie to hau’t; The text fulfil, Which bids cast out the sa’tless sa’t To the dunghill.
They are sae fed, they lie sae saft, They are sae hain’d, they grow sae daft; This breeds ill wiles, ye ken, fu’ aft In the black coat, Till poor Mess John, an’ the priest-craft Gaes ti’ the pot.
​I tald them, then, it was but wicked, To add affliction to the afflicted; But to it they were so addicted, They said therefore The clout about me should be pricked At the Kirk door.
But yet yet nor Kirk nor Cons’terie, Quoth they, can ask the taudry fee; Tell me in words just twa or three, The deil a plack, For tary-breeks shou’d ay gae free, An’ he’s the Clark.
I then was dumb; how I was griev’d! What wou’d I gien to be reliev’d! They us’d me waur than I had thiev’d, Some strain’d their lungs, And very loud they me mischiev’d Wi’ their ill tongues.
Had you been there to hear an’ see, The manner how they guided me; An’ greater pennance wha cou’d dree ! A Lettergae, Wi’ sic a pack confin’d to be, On gude Yule-day.
Young Jack wi’ skirls he pierc’d the skies, I pray’d that death might close his eyes, But did not meet with that surprise, To my regret, Sae had nae help, but up and tries Het drinks to get.
​This laid their din, the drink was stale, And to’t they gaed wi’ tooth and nail; And wives whase rotten tusks did fail, Wi’ bread and cheese, They bill’d fu’ fast at butter’d ale To gi’e them ease.
They ca’ upon me, then dadda, Come tune your fiddle, play us a Jigg or hornpipe, nae mair SOL FA, My bonny cock; The Kirk an’ you maun pluck a fa’ Abount young Jock.
Play up, Sae merry as we hae been, Or, Wat ye wha we met yestreen? Or, Lass will ye lend me your leem? Or, Soups o’ Brandy; Or, Gin the Kirk wad let’s alane, Or, Houghmagandy.
Sic tunes as these, yea, three or four, They called for, ill mat they cour! Play, cries the cummer, wi’ a glour, The wanton toudy, Wha did the Dominie ding o’er, Just heels o’er goudy.
O’ music I had little skill, But as I cou’d I play’d my fill, It was my best to shaw good will; Yet a’ my drift, Was best how I might win the hill The wives to shift.
​Sae leaving them to drink her ale, I sling’d awa’ and let them rail: Then running till my breath did fail, I was right glad Frae Kirk an’ wives to tak leg-bail.— Nae doubt they said,
The Lettergae has play’d the fool, And shifted the Repenting Stool; To Kirk and Session bids good-day, He’ll o’er the hills and far away.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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[[Category:Comedic writing]