XXI. But now the L-d's ain trumpet touts, Till a' the hills are rairin, An' echoes back return the shouts: His piercing words, like Highland swords, His talk o' H-11, where devils dwell, Our vera sauls does harrow Wi' fright that day. XXII. A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, XXIII. "Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell How monie stories past, How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, An' dawds that day. XXIV. In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife, The auld Guidmen, about the grace, XXV. Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass, On sic a day! XXVI. Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow, Begins to jow an' croon; Some swagger hame, the best they dow, Some wait the afternoon. At slaps the billies halt a blink, Till lasses strip their shoon: Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, They're a' in famous tune For crack that day. XXVII. How monie hearts this day converts O' sinners and o' lasses! Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh is. There's some are fou o' love divine; An' monie jobs that day begun, 1 Shakspeare's Hamlet. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. A TRUE STORY. SOME books are lies frae end to end, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. The Clachan yill had made me canty, I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye The rising moon began to głowr But whether she had three or four, I was come round about the hill, To keep me sicker; I there wi' Something did forgather, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, For fient a wame it had ava! And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' As cheeks o' branks. 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?" It spak right howe- My name is Death, But tent me, billie; I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!' |