AIR. Tune-"Jolly mortals fill your glasses." I. See the smoking bowl before us! CHORUS. Afig for those by law protected! Liberty's a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest. II. What is title? what is treasure? A fig, &c. III. With the ready trick and fable, IV. A fig &c. Does the train attended carriage VOL. II.-D Life is all a variorum, V. We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose. VI. A fig &c. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets; A fig &c. A fig for those by law protected! Churches built to please the priest. DEATH AND DR. 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, That e'er he nearer comes oursel The Clachan yill had made me canty, An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay The rising Moon began to glow'r But whether she had three or four, I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willies mill, Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I there wi' Something did forgather, An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that ere I saw, For fient a wame it had ava! And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' As cheeks o' branks! "Guid-e'en," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been When ither folk are busy sawin* ?" It seem'd to make a kind o' stan', But naething spak; Imawin At length, says I, "Friend, whare ye gaun, It spak right howe-"My name is Death, 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 wad na mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard." "Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gie's your news; This whylet ye hae been monie a gate, "Ay, ay!" quo' he, an' shook his head, "It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the tread, An' choke the breath: *This rencontre happened in seed-time, 1785. An epidemical fever was then raging in that cour Foulk maun do something for their bread, "Sax thousand years are near hand fled An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid, Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade, "Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin, "See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierc'd monie a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art; And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f-t, D-mn'd haet they'll kill! "Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professional- Buchan's Domestic Medicine. |