ELEGY, TO MY AULD SHOEN.
By Samuel Thomson

ADIEU my pumps, your days are done;
Ah wae is me, your race is run!
Now to the moole, my worthy shoen,
              I'm forc'd to send ye!
The cobler has declar'd ye gone—
              He canna' mend ye!

    Tho' yet I shall be laith to scorn ye,
O'er monie a moss and moor ye've born me, 
An' monie a lang an dreary journey 
              Baith late, an' soon, 
Thro' days an' nights cauld, wat an' stormy, 
              But now ye're done. 

    I'll say't, great pains I took alway,
To gie ye baith alike fair play :
I chang'd ye duly ilka day
              I pat ye on;
But now, gude faith I'm e'en right wae, 
              To see ye done. 

    Three quarters now are near han' past,
Sin that night ye cam aff the last;
Ye never gat an hour's rest,
              Save whan I slept:
Mair honest stuff was never drest,
	      O' cawf or kip.

   Nae mair my social hours ye'll dree ; 
Nae mair ye'll scour the daisied lee ;
Nae mair to dance ye'll carry me, 
              Nor ever mair 
Those happiest of my minutes see 
              Befide my fair. 

  But why shou'd I at fate repine? 
"Tis just the same wi a' man kin':
Then let us a' to heaven resign;
              For, like our shoen,
From lifes meridian we decline
              Until we're done.