Till ane Hornbook 's* taen up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me. Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin And pouk my hips. See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f-t, 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, It was sae blunt, *This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician. + Buchan's Domestic Medicine. Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart Of a kail-runt. I drew my scythe in sic a fury, Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae try'd a quarry O' hard whin rock. Even them he canna get attended, Although 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 As A B C. 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. 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," Sae white and bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnie!" 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, 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, An' pays him weel. The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, Was laird himsel. *The grave-digger. A bonnie lass, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame: She trusts hersel, to hide the 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 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, 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 raised us baith: I took the way that pleased mysel, And sae did Death. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O thou! whatever title suit thee, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; An' though yon lowin heugh's thy hame, An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way, When twilight did my Grannie summon Or, rustlin, through the boortries comin, Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, |