'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

Out-owre my beard.'

'Weel, weel!' says I, ' a bargain be 't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks, an' tak a seat;

2

Come, gies your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house.'

Ay, ay!' quo' he, an' shook his head, 'It's ev'n 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.

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

An' mony a scheme in vain 's been laid,
To stap or scar me;

Till ane Hornbook 's 3 ta'en up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur me.

'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan,*
An' ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
And pouk my hips.

< See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, They hae pierced mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art,

And cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a f―t,

Damn'd haet they'll kill.

'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a noble throw at ane;

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; But deil-ma-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

'Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt,

Fient haet o 't wad hae pierced the heart Of a kail-runt.

'I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

Ev'n them he canna get attended, Although their face he ne'er had kenn'd it, Just in a kail-blade, and send it,

As soon's he smells't,

Baith their disease, and what will mend it, At once he tells't.

32

'And then a' doctors' saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,
He's sure to hae;

Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

'Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees;
True sal-marinum o' the seas;
The farina of beans and pease,

He has 't in plenty;

Aqua-fontis, what you please,

He can content ye.

'Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons;

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings; Distill'd per se;

Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,

And mony mae.'

'Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole 5 now!'
Quo' I,' If that the news be true,
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew
Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnie !'

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says, 'Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear :

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.

< Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,
By drap an' pill.

'An honest wabster to his trade,

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

When it was sair;

The wife slade cannie to her bed,

But ne'er spak mair.

A countra laird had ta'en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts;
His only son for Hornbook sets,

An' pays him weel;
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets,
Was laird himsel.

A bounie lass, ye kenn'd her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hoved 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 does he poison, kill, an' slay,

An 's weel paid for 't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

Wi' his d-min'd dirt:

'But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited Scot,

As dead 's a herrin:

Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin !'

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

Which raised us baith:

I took the way that pleased mysel,

And sae did Death.

NOTES ON DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

1 This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. 3 This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.

4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 5 The grave-digger.