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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,


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They'll a' be trench'd wi’ mony a fheugh.

In twa-three year.

"WHARE I kill d ane a fair ftrae death,

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. 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,

5 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,

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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'

• 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,

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• 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.


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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 thruth, Hailing the setting fun, sweet in the green

thorn bush ;


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


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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