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Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The querest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava;

And then its shanks,

As cheeks o' branks.

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

'Guid-een,' quo' I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin? *'

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

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

But naething spak ;

Wil ye go back!'

It spak right howe,

My name is Death,

But be na fley'd.'-Quoth 1, ' Guid faith,

Ye're may be come to

stap my breath;

But tent me billie;

See there's a gully!'

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

́ Gudeman,' 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 mislear'd,

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 shauks 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.

This recounter happened in seed time, 1785.

+ 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 sae well acquaint wi' Buchan+
An' ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin,

And pouk my hips.

'See, here's a seythe, 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 not worth a f―t,

Damn'd haet they'll kill.

gaen,

'Twas but yestreen, nae farther
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 upon the bane,

But did nae mair.

Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,

And 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 nearband cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel bae try'd a quarry

O' hard whin rock.

* This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, was, professionally, a bro ther of the sovereign Order of the Ferula but by intuition and inspiration, an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.

+ Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

C

'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 peas,

He has❜t in plenty :

Aqua-fortis, 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;

And mony mae.

Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippings,

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 Johnnie !'

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says, Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,

Tak ye na fear;

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh

In twa-three year.

Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath,

The grave digger.

This night I'm free to take 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 contra 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 grimmer-pets,

Was laird himsel.

A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had how'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.

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,

Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

As dead's a herrin:

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 that pleas'd mysel,

And see did Death.

THE

BRIGS OF AYR.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ.
BANKER IN AYR.

THE simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry 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, nurs'd 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,
Shall he be guilty of their bireling crimes,
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes ?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When Ballantine befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

"Twas when the stacks gets on their winter hap,
And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra skaith
Of coming Winter's biting frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,"
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,

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