XXI.

But now the L-d's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairin,

An' echoes back return the shouts:
Black ****** isna spairin:

His piercing words, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' H-11, where devils dwell,

Our vera sauls does harrow

Wi' fright that day.

XXII.

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat,
Wad melt the hardest whunstane!
The half asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear,
"Twas but some neebor snorin
Asleep that day.

XXIII.

"Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell

How monie stories past,
An' how they crouded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms an' benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

XXIV.

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife,
An' sits down by the fire,

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 by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,
Fu' lang that day.

XXV.

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!

XXVI.

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.

XXVII.

How monie 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' monie jobs that day begun,
May end in Houghmagandie
Some ither day.

1 Shakspeare's Hamlet.

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

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.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-ll

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I wasna fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;

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

The rising moon began to głowr
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel;

But whether she had three or four,
I cou❜dna tell.

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

To keep me sicker;
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

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, as sharp an' sma'

As cheeks o' branks.

Guid-een,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin1?'

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

But naething spak;

At length, says I, ‘Friend whare ye gaun,

'Will ye go back?"

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!'