1 "Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortifi'd the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart "I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near hand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae try'd a quarry O' hard whin rock. "Ev'n them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it, Just-in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, "And then a' doctor's saws and whittles Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A' kind o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles "Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and peas, He hast' in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. "Forbye some new, uncommon weapons. Urinus spiritus of capons; "Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now," Quo' I, "if that the news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh: The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, Tak ye nae fear: They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh "Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, That Hornbook's skill "An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; The wife slade cannie to her bed, But ne'er spak mair. "A countra Laird had taen the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, *The grave-digger. His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him well, The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was Laird himsel. "A bonie lass, ye kenn'd her name, Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, "That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill an' slay, An's well paid for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his d-mn'd dirt: "But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead's a herrin; Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, He gets his fairin!"" But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Which rais'd us haith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. [On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following Address.] I. Guid-morning to your Majesty! Is sure an uncouth sight to see, II. I see ye're complimented thrang, By monie a lord and lady; The Poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, On sic a day. III. For me! before a monarch's face, For neither pension, post, nor place, There's monie waur been o' the race, Than you this day. IV. 'Tis very true, my sov'ring king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Than did ae day. V. Far be't frae me that I aspire Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. VI. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Your sair taxation does her fleece, |