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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 fheugh.

In twa-three year.

"WHARE I kill d ane a fair ftrae death,

. By loss o' blood or want of breath, • This night I'm free to tak my aith,

6 That Hornbook's skill

• Has clad a score i' their last claith,

• By drap an' pill.

"An honeft Wabfter to his trade,

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel

• bred,

& Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

"When it was fair ;

• The wife flade cannie to her bed,

'But ne'er fpak mair.

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

• Au pays him well. · The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

. Was Laird himsel.

A BONIE lass, ye kend her name,

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd 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

· Thus does he poison, kill, an' flay,

• An's weel paid for't;

6 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 speakin o't;

l'll nail the self-conceited Sot,

• As dead's a herrin :

• Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

'He get's 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.

Τ Η Ε

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INSCRIBED TO'J. B*********, Ese. AYR,

The fimple Bard, rough at the rustic

plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough: The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrufh, Hailing the setting fun, sweet in the green

thorn bush ;

The

The roaring lark, the perching red-breaft

fhrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey wild-whistling

o'er the hill; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed,

To hardy Independance bravely bred,
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,
And train'd to arm's in ftern Misfortune's

field;

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ?
No! though his artless strains he rudely

sings. And throws his hand uncouthly o’er the

Arings,

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