[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- It spak right howe-" My name is Death, But be na fley'd." Quoth I, "Guid faith, 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 "Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gie's your hand, and sae we're gree't; 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 Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, "Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin', "See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, And WELL-TRIED skill, Has made them baith no worth A SCART, ""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen, But SPITE my care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, "Hornbook was by wi' ready art, 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, Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock. "And then a' doctor's saws and whittles, Their Latin names as fast he rattles "Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees, Aqua fontis, what you please, • 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 'But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, As dead's a' herrin': Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell I took the way that pleased mysel' 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, I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, Yet, what the matter! Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, Your critic folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammar; A set o' dull conceited hashes, Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, And syne they think to climb Parnassus 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, 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, I'se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that's true, I winna blaw about mysel; As ill I like my fauts to tell; boast faults |