21 But now the L-'s ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',

An' echoes back return the shouts-
Black Russell' is na sparin':
His piercing words, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' hell, where devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow 2

Wi' fright that day.

22 A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane !
The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear
'Twas but some neebour snorin'

Asleep that day.

23 "Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How mony stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in

cogs an'

Amang the furms and benches:

caups,

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dauds that day.

24 In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

''Black Russell:' afterwards of Stirling. His son, who, like the father, was an excellent man, was minister of Muthil, Perthshire.-2 Sauls does harrow: Shakspeare's 'Hamlet.'-B.

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife ;
The lasses they are shyer.
The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane bye his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them 't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

25 Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel'
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

26 Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,
Begins to jow an' croon ;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.

27 How mony hearts this day converts
O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night. are gane
As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' mony jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK:

A TRUE STORY.

1 SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd :
Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,

A rousing whid,' at times, to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture.

2 But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the deil's in hell,
Or Dublin city:
That e'er he nearer comes oursel'
'S a muckle pity.

3 The clachan yill had made me canty—
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

4 The rising moon began to glowr
The distant Cumnock hills outowre:

A rousing whid:' in Second Edition-
Great lies and nonsense baith to verd.'

To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel';

But whether she had three or four,
I could na tell.

5 I was come round about the hill,
And todlin' down on Willie's mill,1
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;

Though leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

6 I there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, outowre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-taed leister, on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

7 Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava;

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, an' sharp, an' sma',

As cheeks o' branks.

8 'Guid-e'en', quo' I; 'Friend, hae ye been mawin', When ither folk are busy sawin'?'2

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun ?—
Will ye go back?'

''Willie's mill:' a mill near Mauchline, on the river Faile, occupied by William Muir, a crony of Burns.-2 Busy sawin':' this rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.-B.

9 It spak right howe- My name is Death, But be na fley'd.' Quoth I, 'Guid faith, Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully.'

10 Guidman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wad na mind it, no that spittle

Outowre my beard.

11 Weel, weel,' says I, ' a bargain be't;

Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree 't ;
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat-

Come, gie's your news;

This while1 ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house.'

12 Ay, ay!' quo' he, an' shook his head,
'It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread,

An' choke the breath:

Folk maun do something for their bread,
An' sae maun Death.

13 Sax thousand years are near hand fled, Sin' I was to the butching bred,

'This while:' an epidemical fever was then raging in that county.-B.