Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 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; 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 To stap or scar me; An' faith, he'll waur me. 'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 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 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, 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, And then a doctor's saws and whittles, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles As A B C. "Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; 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 :' Sae white and bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnnie !' The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 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, An' pays him well. The lad, for twa guid grimmer-pets, Was laird himsel. A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name, 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, 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 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. THE simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, 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, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field, "Twas when the stacks gets on their winter hap, |