ye;

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are,

Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK

A TRUE STORY

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd :
Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid at times to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

The clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;

The poet intercedes for him

A strange I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye
meeting
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel❜;

But whether she had three or four,
I cou'd na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
An' todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker ;
Tho' leeward whiles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something does forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For fient a wame it had ava';

And then its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'
As cheeks o' branks.

'Guid-een,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye
When ither folk are busy sawin!'

been mawin,

It seem'd to make a kind o' stan'

But naething spak ;

At length, says I, 'Friend! whare ye gaun? • Will ye go

back?'

It spak right howe,- My name is Death, 'But be na fley'd.'-Quoth I, 'Guid faith, 'Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

'But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

'See, there's a gully!

'Gudeman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, 'I'm no designed to try its mettle;

'But if I did, I wad be kittle

6

To be mislear'd;

I wad na mind it, no that spittle

6 Out-owre my beard.'

Weel, weel!' says I, 'a bargain be❜t; 'Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat

'Come, gie's your news;

This while ye hae been mony a gate,

'At mony a house.'

Ay, ay!' quo' he, and 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 dae something for their bread,

'An' sae maun Death.

'Sax thousand years are near-hand fled 'Sin' I was to the butching bred,

A talk with Death

DeathAn' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,

meets his master

To stap or scar me;
'Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade,
And 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 weel acquaint wi' Buchan
'And ither chaps,

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

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

'An' cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a f―t,
'D-n'd haet they'll kill!

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

• Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ;
• But deil-ma-care,

'It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

'Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
'An' 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
Of 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.

Ev'n them he canna get attended, 'Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it,

• Just

in a kail-blade, an' 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 an' 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,

'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 Johnie Ged's-Hole now,' Quoth I, if that thae news be true!

Hornbook's accomplishments