Poem by James Fisher

The Devil’s Advice to Swearers

My couthie lads, baith far an’ near,
Wha loo to curse, an’ loo to swear,
Ye are the lads that I loo dear,
	You at the last
I’ll weel reward, ye need na fear,
	When time is past.
	
For your encouragement, I tell,
The better that óå learn to spell,
Ye’ll speak our tauk mair rid in hell,
	When óe come there; 	
Ay, that óe will lads, wi’ mysel’
	For ever mair!	
	
An’ now my lads, fu’ bra an’ dink,
That óe our language mair distinct 
May learn to speak, afore óe sink,
	An’ come to hell, 
Wi’ aiths mak a’ your words to clink,
	An’ soun right snell.

To speak a word be aye fu’ laith,
Till first óe gie a horrid aith, 
Before I mean, an’ after baith; 
	An’, this óe hear,
Whether óe speak for weel or skaith,
	Be sure to swear. 

In banning likewise, learn this knack,
To cry on me, be never slack,
Baith ithers an’ yourself to tak,
	An’ óe may trou,
Though they frae me shoud be kept back,
	I’ll no miss you.

For death will come or lang, in fact,
An’ help ye on a my humph back,
When doun to hell I’ll like a pack,
	Tak’ yon at ance,
Where routh o’ ingle ye’ll no lack,
	To heat your shins. 

Now faith an’ trouth, like auld pea hools,
Or babee dozen button mools,
Are little thought of in my skules, –
	They’re sic ware,
They’re only spoke by waens an’ snules,
	That’s hard o’ lear.

But you wha hae a genius clever,
Your Maker’s name in vain tak’ ever,
Let damn be in your mouth together;
	I say, be sure
To damn fouks lims, an’ lungs, an’ liver,
	This will procure.

Mair wage for you, my lads, in hell,
Than ony mortal’s tongue can tell:
O then my lads, how ye will yell,
	When ye come there!
When wrapt in flames, close wi’ mysel’,
	For ever mair!

1. Epistle II. To Mr. Thomas Walker
2. An Epistle to Mr. John Lapraik
3. Epistle I. To Mr. Thomas Walker
4. On Halloween

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