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 16                   Afore that I the ghaist had laid, The nasty beast had the bed, And sae my tale I here do end; I hope no one will it offend, My muse will nae assist me langer, The dorty jade sometimes does anger. I thought her ance a gay smart lass; But now she's come to such a pass, That a' my cudgelling and wheeping, Will hardly wake her out o' sleeping: To plague her mair I winna try, But dight my pen and lay it by.

YOUNG WHIP STITCH,

A London Tailor's Son.

A LONDON Tailor, (as 'tis said,) By buckram, canvass, tape, and thread, Sleeve-lining in pockets, silk and twist; And all the long expensive list With which their uncouth bills abound, Though rarely in their garmets found; By these and other arts in trade, Had soon a pretty fortune made. And did what few had ever done, Left thirty thousand to his son. The son a gay young swaggering blade, Abhor'd the very name of trade; And lest reflection should be thrown On him, resolved to leave the town, And travel where he was not known.