'Gudeman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle; But if I did-I wad be kittle To be mislear'd I wad na mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard.' 'Weel, weel!' says I, 'a bargain be't; Come, gies your news; This while ye hae been mony a gate, At mony a house.' 'Ay, ay!' quo' he, an' shook his head, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An' sae maun Death. 'Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, To stap or scaur me; 60 70 An' faith! he'll waur me. 'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan- The weans haud out their fingers laughin', 'See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart- And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a fart! 80 Damn'd haet they'll kill. 90 "Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, I threw a noble throw at ane Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain- It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. 'Hornbook was by wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part That, when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart O' a kail-runt. '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 tried a quarry O' hard whin rock. 'E'en them he canna get attended, As soon's he smells 't, 'And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles 'Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; He has 't in plenty ; Aqua-fontis, what you please, D He can content ye. 100 I 10 120 'Forbye some new uncommon weapons, Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mony mae.' 'Wae's me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,' Sae white and bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnie !' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 'Where I kill'd ane, a fair strae-death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, 130 140 By drap and pill. 150 'An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-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 country laird had ta'en the batts, An' pays him well: 160 The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel. 'A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name, In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 6 To hide it there. That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; An's weel pay'd for 't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey Wi' his damn'd dirt. 'But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, As dead's a herrin': Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 170 He gets his fairin'!' 180 But, just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. A DREAM. GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty! Is sure an uncouth sight to see 20 I see ye're complimented thrang, 'God save the King!''s a cuckoo sang The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes well-turn'd an' ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. For me, before a monarch's face- There's mony waur been o' the race, Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sovereign King, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire To chaps wha in a barn or byre Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. 10 |