[mowing good even,

"Guid e'en," quo' I; " Friend, hae ye been mawin,

When ither folks are busy sawin'?"

It seemed 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 rede ye weel tak care o' scaith,

See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,

I'm no designed 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, gie's your hand, and sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat-

Come, gie's your news;

This while ye hae been mony a gate,

66

At mony a house."

Ay, ay!" quo' he, and shook his head,

"It's e'en a lang lang time indeed

Sin' I began to nick the thread,

And choke the breath:

Folk maun do something for their bread,

And sae maun Death.

30wing

where, going

nollow frightened

stop

observe, my lad

advise, well, harm

clasp-knife

weapon

difficult

30 baulked

agreed

some time, road

many

long cut

must

80

A wooden frame, forming with a rope r bridle for troublesome cows and horses

B

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
And mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scaur me;

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

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan,
I WISH his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquant wi' Buchan*
And 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 WELL-TRIED skill,

Has made them baith no worth A SCART,
NAE haet they'll kill.

""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;

But SPITE my 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,

NAE haet o't wad hae pierced the heart

O' 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.

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles,
He's sure to hae;

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

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees,
True sal-marinum o' the seas;
The farina of beans and peas,
He has't in plenty;

Aqua fontis, what you please,
He can content ye."

• Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;

Thus goes he on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, and slay,

An's weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey
Wi' his PILL dirt:

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

As dead's a' herrin':

Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He get's 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.

where, in bed

oath

clothes drop

weaver two fists

got twopence

sore

slid gently

spoke more

specimen

next, wager drubbing

beyond, twelve

both

*The gravedigger.

+ Pasturage of the churchyard.

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Though rude and rough,

doggerel verses

Yet crooning to a body's sell,
Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
And hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter!

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools,
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammar;
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes!

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

And syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire!

That's a' the learning I desire,

Then though I drudge through dub and mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee,

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,

That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it!

learning

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,

enough

Though real friends I b'lieve are few,

Yet, if your catalogue be fou,

full

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

boast faults