Elegy On James Robb, Captain Of The Tolbooth Of Edinburgh Poem by James Wilson Claudero

Garlick and onions, aid my woe,
Ye crocodiles, your tears let flow,
And Stirling-castle's large head now,
Pour forth its streams, as rivers do;
For CAPTAIN ROBB is now no more
A goaler, on this mortal shore.
How pale now lies his lovely nose,
Which wont to shine like scarlet rose;
That nose, which always pity smelt,
And soft as butter then would melt;
Now, like its kindred whisky, blue,
No more assumes carnation hue.
Let Stirling-castle loud rebound
The minute-guns, the mortal sound:
The mourning flag aloft display,
To aid the sorrow of the day.
Ye offspring of the royal Dane,
Assisting join the dreary train.
To Wilsons ay a lasting friend,
From his commencement to his end;
On you he pour'd his favours down,
And brought forth blessings on our town;
But now he's gone, without relief,
To lodge with ev'ry goaler's chief.
The baps he had from honest baker,
Were full of conscience, as their maker:
His ale it bore a wat'ry bell,
For brewers stole it from the well,
And chas'd it thro' the draffy malt,
Lest gaugers should espy the fault;
His whisky, of a limpid hue,
Somewhat inclining to a blue,
He sold as cheap as Clearihue.
And let me die, as I'm a sinner,
He had himself as good a dinner,
As ever any man was able,
To place upon a provost's table.
And if his pris'ners did not eat,
I'm sure they could not blame the meat.
And for room-rent, as Penny said,
The de'il a farthing e'er they paid,
Until his tenants were to flit,
And then he shook his nose for it.
No captain ever bore command,
On war-ship-board, or on dry-land,
More absolute than this our hero,
Is here attested by Claudero.