“Elegy on Maggy Johnston”

Edinburgh [Old Reekie], put on your black mourning clothes! let a flood of tears drop like May dew, say goodbye to the wonderful two-penny ale which we used to drink up as quickly as she could brew it. But oh! She’s dead.

To tell the truth now, Maggy was doing all right. She had a crowd of customers. Both lords and shoemakers would all go to drink continuously. The barn and the yard were often so full that we went out to the meadow [to drink].

And there we sat down by the dozens and cheerfully drank the healths of pretty girls either black- or brown-haired, the ones we loved the best. We drowned our sorrows in mugs of ale and rested.

When we had some coins in our pouches, and had been golfing, we often played hi-jinks at Maggy’s and guzzled beer till we were so full of drink we could scarcely take our clothes off.

We drank and drew and filled up again. O wow, we were so happy and delighted. When anyone miscounted [in the game], it was great to hear us all cry, drink up and throw the dice.

We used to constantly drink and carry on, until we stared wide-eyed and yawned, and pissed and threw up and belched and shook, really hammered, I swear. Then we would tell old stories when we were drunk.

When we were tired of golf, then Maggy Johnston’s was our place. But now all the players can sit listlessly with hearts like lead. Death with his club dealt her a blow, and so she died.

Must we be forced to loose your skill? That’s something which we will sorely regret, or have you passed on to your children the knack of brewing ale so it tastes as good as wine and makes us have such a good time.

So great it was to have a toasted scone made of pease flour hissing in one’s cap and making the cold go away. We used to get drunk there cheaply and quickly. Now woe is me, our entertainment is gone since Maggy’s gone.

One summer night I was so drunk I went to throw up in the wheat field. Then I sat down on a green bank, I think, and took a nap and slept all night as sound as a top [expression meaning sleep soundly].

And when the dawn began to glow I lifted up my dizzy head from among the wheat like a hobgoblin which is so feared by children and I had no more idea than a sheep of how I came there.

Some said it was the insides of the broom plant that she put into her ale-brewing pot that raised such a foam in our heads [made us so light-headed]—or maybe some wild seed which caused the tankard to be empty so often and our heads to be full.

But it’s true that we can’t put our trust in the best ale. Instead, when we grow old we return to dust. So why should we be upset that Maggy’s dead?

She led a comfortable life and a long and healthy one, free from worry, or work or conflict, until she was old, and she learned to be a clever woman at brewing ale.

Then farewell sweet and capable Maggy. You were the best of all brewers. Let all your friends cry and lament; for whether you’re in heaven or hell, it’s certain you’re dead.