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There's some are fou o' love divine;
There's some are fou o' brandy;
An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie

Some ither day.

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 befel,
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 was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowr

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'd na 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;

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma’

And then its shanks,

As cheeks o' branks.

Guid-een,' quo' I;

'Friend! hae ye been mawin,

When ither folk are busy sawin'?'

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

But naething spak;

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

Will ye go back?'

1 This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

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

But tent me billie;

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See there's a gully!'

'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 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,

Come, gies your news;

This while 3 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,

2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.

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 4
An' ither chaps,

The weans baud 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 hundred's 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 pierc'd the heart

Of a kail-runt.

This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, was, professionally, a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula but, by intuition and inspiration, an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.

4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

'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 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 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 BC.

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;

And mony mae.

Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail-clippings,

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