Guid-een; quo'I; Friend!hae ye been mawin, 'When ither folk are busy sawin? Poems.p 34.

AUG.1.1824.

'Gudeman,' 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 wadna 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,

،

Come, gies your news;

This while2 ye hae been mony a gate

At mony a house.'

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.

، 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 pierc'd 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 fortify'd the part, That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt,

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

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near-hand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

O' hard whin rock.

'Ev'n them he canna get attended,

Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, in a kail-blade, and send it,

Just

As soon's he smells't,

Baith their disease, and what will mend it,

At once he tells't.

'And then a' doctor's 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 Johnie Ged's Hole now,' Quo' I, if that the news be true!

His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonnie, Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; They'll ruin Johnie !'

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, 'Ye needna yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh

In twa-three year.