There's some are fou o' love divine,
There's some are fou o' brandy;
An' monie jobs that day begun,
May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A true Story.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I wasna fou, but just had plenty :

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye

Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowr
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel;
But whether she had three or four,
I cou'dna tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang:

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest 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 sawin1?'

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

But naething spak;

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

Will

ye go back?'

This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785,

It spak right howe-'My name is Death,
But bena 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,

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 kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wadna 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,

2

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.

'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 3 ta'en up the trade,

An' faith, he'll waur me.

2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 3 This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition

Ye ken Jack Hornbook i' the Clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan 4
An' ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin
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 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
Of a kail-runt.

I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

O' hard whin rock.

I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician.

4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

'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,
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 pease,

He has❜t in plenty;

Aqua-fontis, what you please,

6

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 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!

The gravedigger.