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'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,
Come, gies your hand,
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat-

'a bargain be't;
an' sae we're gree'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,
'It's e'en a lang lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath:

Folk maun do something for their bread,

An' sae maun Death.

'Sax thousand years are near-hand fled,
Sin' I was to the butching bred;
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid

To stap or scaur me;
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade,

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An' faith! he'll waur me.

'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan-
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan
An' ither chaps.

The weans haud out their fingers laughin',
And pouk my hips.

'See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart-
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art

And cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a fart!

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Damn'd haet they'll kill. 90

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"Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane, I threw a noble throw at ane

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain-
But deil may care!

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,
Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it,
Just sh in a kail-blade, and send it,

As soon's he smells 't,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells 't.

'And then a' doctor's saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,

He's sure to hae;

Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

'Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o' the seas;
The farina of beans and pease,

He has 't in plenty ;

Aqua-fontis, what you please,

D

He can content ye.

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I 10

120

'Forbye some new uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons;

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill'd per se;

Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,

And mony mae.'

'Wae's me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,'
Quoth I, if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward where gowans grew

Sae white and bonnie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;

They'll ruin Johnie !'

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says 'Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd enough,

Tak ye nae fear;

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.

'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,

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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,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,

An' pays him well: 160

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

Was laird himsel.

'A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,

In Hornbook's care;

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,

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To hide it there.

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 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,
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,

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He gets his fairin'!' 180

But, just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

Which rais'd us baith:

I took the way that pleas'd mysel,

And sae did Death.

A DREAM.

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!
May heaven augment your blisses
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see-
A humble poet wishes!
My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see
Amang thae birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

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I see ye're complimented thrang,
By mony a lord an' lady;

'God save the King!''s a cuckoo sang
That's unco easy said aye;

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-
Ev'n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So nae reflection on your Grace,
Your kingship to bespatter;

There's mony waur been o' the race,
And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be doubted ;
But Facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
An' now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it,

Than did ae day.

Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation;
But faith! I muckle doubt, my Sire,
Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps wha in a barn or byre

Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

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