Thay spuilye puir men of their pakis,
Thay leif them nocht on bed nor bakis;
Baith hen and cok,
With reil and rok,
The Lairdis Jok,
All with him takis.
Thay leif not spindell, spoone, nor speit;
Bed, boster, blanket, sark, nor scheit;
Johne of the Parke
Ryps kist and ark;
For all sic wark
He is richt meit.
He is weil kend, John of the Syde;
A greater theif did never ryde.
He never tyris
For to brek byris:
Ouir muir and myris
Ouir gude ane gyde.
Thair is ane, callet Clement's Hob,
Fra ilk puir wyfe reifis the wob,
And all the lave,
Quhatever they haife,
The devil recave
Thairfoir his gob.
To sic grit stouth quha eir wald trow it,
Bot gif some great man it allowit
Rycht sair I trow
Thocht it be rew:
Thair is sa few
That dar avow it.
Of sum great men they have sic gait,
That redy are thame to debait,
And will up weir
Thair stolen geir;
That nane dare steir
Thame air nor late.
Quhat causis theifis us ourgang,
Bot want of justice us amang?
Nane takis cair,
Thocht all for fear;
Na man will spair
Now to do wrang.
Of stouth thocht now thay come gude speid,
That nother of men nor God has dreid;
Yet, or I die,
Sum sail thame sie,
Hing on a trie
Quhill thay be deid--
_Quo_' Sir R.
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