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' monie a scheme in vain's been laid
To stap or scar me;

Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur me!

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook, 'the Clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan,t
An' ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
An' pouk my hips.

"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,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain,
But deil-may-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

• This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the sovereign order of the Ferula, but, by intuition and inspiration, is al once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.

↑ Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art
And had sae fortified 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 haud cowpit wi' my hurry ; But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

"Ev'n them he canna get attended,
Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it,
Just- - in a kail-blade, and send it,
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 an' whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kind 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 peas,

He has't in plenty :

Aqua-fortis, what you please,

He can content ye.

"Forbye, some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus o' capons;

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill'd per se;

Sal alkali o' midge-tail-clippings,

And monie mae."

"Wae's me for Johnny Ged's Hole now,"
Quo' I, "if that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white an' bonie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh;
They'll ruin Johnny!"

The creature grain'd an eldrictch laugh,
And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh;
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh,
In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae death,
By loss o' blood, or want o' 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 grave-digger.

The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair.

"A countra laird had taen the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts;
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An' pays him well:

The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets,
Was laird himsel'.

"A bonie lass, ye kenn'd her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame,
She trusts hersel', to hide her shame,
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;
Thus he goes on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,
An's weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,
Wi' his d-mn'd dirt.

"But hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited sot

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,

Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which rais'd us baith;

I took the way that pleas'd mysel',

And sae did Death.

A DREAM.

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following address.]

I.

GUID morning to your Majesty!

May heav'n augment your blisses,
On every new birth-day ye see,
An humble poet wishes!
My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang the birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang,

By monie a lord and lady;
"God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang,

That's unco easy said ay;

The Poets, too, a venal gang