Till ane Hornbook's* ta'en up the trade, "Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin "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 f-t, 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slains It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortify'd the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. "I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I nearhand 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. * This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the sovereign order of the FeruIa; but, by intuition and inspiration, is, at once, an apothecary, surgeon, and physician. + Buchan's Domestic Medicine. "Ev'n them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, Just in a kail-blade, and send it, As soon as he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't. And then a doctor's saws and whittles, Their Latin names as fast he rattles "Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; He has't in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. "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." "Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole" now," Quo' I, "if that the news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnie !" The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear: They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year. *The grave-digger. "Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae deatli, By loss o' blood or want of breath, This night, I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. "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 countra laird had ta'en the batts, An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, Was laird himsel. "A bonie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; In Hornbook's care; Horn sent her aff to her long hame, 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 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, 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 baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death THE BRIGS OF AYR. A POEM. Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq. Ayr. The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from every bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train❜d to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, He wander'd out he knew not where nor why.) * A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. |