'Ye ken Jack Hornbook i' the Clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin 'See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a fart, Damn'd haet they'll kill. '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 dirl 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 I drew my scythe in sic a fury, Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae try'd a quarry O' hard whin rock. and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. 4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine. E 2 'Ev'n them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, in a kail-blade, and send it, Just As soon's 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 'Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; 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 mae.' Waes me for Johnie 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 Johnie! 5 The gravedigger. The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, Tak ye nae fear: They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh '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, 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 countra Laird had ta'en the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts, His only son for Hornbook sets, An' pays him weel. The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel. A bonnie lass, ye kend 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; An's weel paid for't; Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, Wi' his damn'd dirt: 'But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 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 Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR. A Poem. INSCRIBED TO J. B******** ESQ. AYR. THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field; With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 'Twas when the stacks gat 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 wi' 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 !) |