The auld Guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

XXV.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives be mindfu', ance yoursel
How bonie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

XXVI.

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,

Begins to jow an' croon ;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.

XXVII.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane,
As saft as ony flesh is.
There's some are fou o' love divine;
There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

DEATH

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.

But

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-11

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, keun'd ay
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
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,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;

Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,

I took a bicker.

I there

I there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-taed 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 been mawin, 'When ither folk are busy sawin?'*

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, Friend, whare ye gaun,

"Will ye go back?'

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

It