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Till ane Hornbook's* ta'en up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur mie.
“ Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,
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 Will.
'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane; Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slains
But deil-ma-oare, It just play'd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair,
56 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.
* 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.
* 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 as he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells't.
* And then a doctor's saws and whittles,
He's sure to hae ;
As A B C
“ Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees;
He has't in plenty ;
He can content ye.
“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons ; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distillid per se ; 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 bonie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie!"
The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
Tak ye nae fear : They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.
* The grave-digger.
46 Whare I kill'd 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.
“ An honest wabster to his trade,
When it was sair;
But ne'er spak mair.
“A countra laird had ta'en the batts,
An' pays him well.
Was laird himsel,
“ A bonie lass, ye kend her name,
In Hornbook's care ;
To hide it there.
“ That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ;
An's weel paid for't ;
Wi' his d-mn'd dirt :
But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
As dead's a herrin:
He gets his fairin !"
But just as he began to tell,
Which rais'd us baith :
And sae did Death.
THE BRIGS OF AYR.
Inscribed to J. B*********, Esq. Ayr.
The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
'Twas when the stacks get 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, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon-tide
blaze, While thick the gossamour waves wanton in
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard,
A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. * The two steeples.