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 may be come to stap my breath;
But tent me billie;

"I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!'

Guidman,' 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 misleard,

'I wad na mind it, no, that spittle

'Out-owre my beard.'

Weel, weel!' says I, a bargain be't;

'Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; 'We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat,

'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.

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.

*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 scar me;

Till ane Hornbook's* ta'en up the trade,
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 sac well acquaint wi' Buchant 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 f―t,
'Damn'd haet they'll kill.

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

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundred's slain;
But deil-ma-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,

'But did nae mair.

*This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. + Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

* 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.

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 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, earth, 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;

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 bonnie,

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,.

Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 'Tak ye nae fear:

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

* Whare I killed ane a fair strae death, 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.

The grave digger.

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

'An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel.

A bonnie lass, ye kend 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,

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;

6. 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 :