DE AT H AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK, A TRUE STORY. SOME books are lies frae end to end, And fome great lies were never penn'd: In holy rapture, A A roufing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befel, Is juft as true's the Deil's in h--ll Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes ourfel 'S a muckle pity. THE Clachan yill had made me canty, I was na fou, but just had plenty; I ftacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay To free the ditches; An' hillocks, ftanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaifts an' witches. The rifing Moon began to glowr The diftant Cumnock hills out-owre! To 1 To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, I fet myfel; But whether he had three or four, I cou'd na tell. I was come round about the hill, Setting my ftaff wi' a' my skill, To keep me ficker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker. I THERE wi' Something did forgather, That pat me in an eerie fwither; An awfu' fcythe, out-owre ae fhouther, Clear dangling, hang; A three-tae'd leifter on the ither Lay, large an' lang. ITs ftature feem'd lang Scotch ells twa The queereft fhape that e'er I faw, For fient a wame it had ava; And then its shanks, They were as thin, as fharp an' fma' As cheeks o' branks. 'Guid-een,' quo' I; Friend! hae ye been mawin, 'When ither folk are bufy fawin *? It feem'd to mak a kind o' ftan,' But naething spak; At length, fays I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun, Will ye go back!' IT spak right howe, My name is Death, But be na' fley'd.'-Quoth I, ' Guid faith, *This recounter happened in seed-time, 1785. Ye're Ye're maybe come to ftap my breath; 'But tent me billie; 'I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See there's a gully!' 'Gudeman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, I'm no defign'd to try its mettle; "But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, 'I wad na mind it, no that fpittle 'Out-owre my beard.' ८ 'Weel, weel!' fays I, a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' fae we're gree't; 'We'll ease our fhanks an' tak a feat, Come, gies your news; This |