Till ane Hornbook 's* taen up the trade,

An' faith, he'll waur me.

Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan +
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 pierced mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art

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,
And had sae fortify'd the part,
That when I looked to my dart,

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,
I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary

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,
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,

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 creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says,
"Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,

Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony 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 wife slade cannie to her bed,

But ne'er spak mair.

A countra Laird had ta'en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,

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 goes he 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,
Though dinna ye be speaking o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot

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 raised us baith:

I took the way that pleased mysel,

And sae did Death.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel !

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame;
Far kend and noted is thy name,

An' though yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray:
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Grannie summon
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman;
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone ;

Or, rustlin, through the boortries comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,