"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart "I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near haud cowpit wi' my hurry; But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry "Ev'n them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd 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 an' whittles, Their Latin names as fast he rattles "Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and peas, He has❜t in plenty : Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can cortent ye Forbye, some new, uncommon weapons, Or mitc-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Sal alkali o' midge-tail-clippings, And monie mae." "Wae's me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now," Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh; The creature grain'd an eldrictch laugh, And says, Tak ye nae fear: They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh, "Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae death, Has clad a score i' their last claith, "An honest wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred. Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was sair; * The grave-digger. The wife slade cannie to her bed, "A countra laird had taen the batts, The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, "A bonie lass, ye kenn'd her name, Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, "That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus he goes on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, "But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, As dead's a herrin; Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal, I took the way that pleas'd mysel', And sae did Death. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; [On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following address.] I. GUID morning to your Majesty! I see ye're complimented thrang, "Goa save the king!" 's a cuckoo sɛng, That's unco easy said ay; ། The Poets, too, a venal gang Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day. III. For me! before a monarch's face, Than you this day. IV. "Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Than did ae day. V. Far be't frae me that I aspire Ye've trusted minisu.ation To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, |