192

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

It spak right howel "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,3

See, there's a gully!"

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

But if I did, I wad be kittles

To be mislear'd,6

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,

66

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,
An' faith, he'll waur me.

I Hollow.

2 Be careful.

6" Put out of my art. 29

3 Damage.
Chambers.

4 A large knife. 5 Difficult.

7 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. —R. B.

8 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. - R. B.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,1
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan3
An' ither chaps,

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

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

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

It just play'd dirl1 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.5

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-haud cowpit6 wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

O' hard whin rock.

"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.

193

194

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

"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 mac."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole1 now,"
Quo' I, "if that thae 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 Johnnie!"

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

Tak ye nae fear:
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh3
In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death 4
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 i̇' their last claith,
By drap and pill.

The grave-digger.-R. B.

2 Daisies.

3 Ditch.

4 A death in bed.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

"An honest Wabster1 to his trade,

Whase wife's twa neives 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, 2 Or some curmurring3 in his guts,

His only son for Hornbook sets,

An' pays him well.

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,*

Was Laird himsel.

"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

But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't;

I'll nail the self-conceited Sot

dirt.

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
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

Which rais'd us baith:

I took the way which pleas'd mysel,

And sae did Death.

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196

EPISTLE TO SIMPSON.

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON,

THE PARISH SCHOOLMASTER OF OCHILTREE.

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxing billie,1
Your flatterin strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Musie;

May, 1785.

Tho' in sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,
I scarce excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,3
Should I but dare a hope to speel,+

Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfiel',5

The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, a writer chiel,

A deathless name.

(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry, musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye Enbrugh Gentry!

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gave my heart a screed,
As while's they're like to be my deed,
(Oh sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;

1 Brother, 2

It gies me ease.

Sidelong flung. 3 Be crazed. 5 Allan Ramsay and Hamilton of Gilbertfield.

4 Climb.

• Rent.