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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,

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

« That Hornbook's skill

“ Has clad a score i' their last claith,

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• Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

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• 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 lafs, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;

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• She trusts herfel, to hide the fhame,

* In Hornbook's care ;

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,

To hide it there,

"That's just a fwatch o' Hornbook's way; .Thus goes he on from day to day,

. Thus

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« Thus does he poison, kill, an'llay,

• 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, • 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.

THE

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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 soaring lark, the perching red-breaft

shrill, 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 Swifs of rhymes ?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating Profe?
No! though his artless strains he rudely

fings. And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the

Arings,

HC

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