AIR.

Tune-"Jolly mortals fill your glasses.”

I.
See the smoking bowl before us!

Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,

And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS

a

Afig for those by law protected !

Liberty's a glorious feast !
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest

II.
What is title ? what is treasure ?

What is reputation's care ?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where.

A fig, &c.

III.
With the ready trick and fable,

Round we wander all the day ;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.

A fig &c.

IV.
Does the train attended carriage

Thro' the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?

A fig &c. TOL. II.--D

V.

a

Life is all a variorum,

We regard not how it goes ; Let'them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose.

A fig &c.

VI.
Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets;

Here's to all the wandering train;
Here's our ragged brats and callets !
One and all cry out, Amen!

A fig &c.
A fig for those by law protected!

Liberty's a glorious feast !
Courts for cowards were erected,

Churches built to please the priest.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK,

A TRUE STORY.

Sonie books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penu'd :
Ey'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-11

Or Dublin city :

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

's a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was nae 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 glow'r
ne 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 Willies 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 ere I saw, For fient a wame it had ava!

And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma'

As cheeks o branks!

“Guid-e'en," quo' I; “Friend ! hae ye been Wben ither folk are busy sawin* ?" mawin It seem'd to make a kind o stan',

But naething spak;
At length, says I, “Friend, whare ye gaun,

Will ye go back ?"
Itspak 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, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat,

Come, gie's your news;
This whylet ye hae been monie a gate,

At monie 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 tread,

An'choke the breath:

a

* This rencontre happened in seed-time, 1785. 1 An epidemical ferer was then raging in that counFoulk 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' monie a scheme in vain's been laid,

To stap or scor me ;
Till ane Hornbook's* taen 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 weel acquaint wi' Buchant

An' ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,

An' pouk my hips.
“See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart,
They hae pierc'd monie a gallant heart ;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art;

And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a ft,

D-mn'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.

This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professional

a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; , by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothe y, surgeon, and physician. Buchan's Domestic Medicine.