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“ Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
It was sae blant,
Of a kail-runt.
“I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near hand 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 kennd ít, Just-in a kail-blade, and send it,
As soon's he smells't, Baith their disease, and what will mendit,
At once he tells't.
“And then a' doctor's saws and whittles Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, A'kind 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 peas,
He hast' in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please,
He can content ye. “Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons ;
Or mite-horn shayings, filings, scrapings,
Distill'd per se;
And monie mae.
Sae white and bonie
They'll ruin Johnny.!" The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, And says, “Ye need na yoke the pleugh; Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
In twa-three year.
That Hornbook's skill
By drap an' pill. " An honest Wabster to his trade, Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair ; The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair.
“A countra Laird had taen the batts, Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An' pays him well, The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets,
Was Laird himsel.
"A bonie lass, ye kenn'd her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame; She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook's care Horn-sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.
“ That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way Thus goes he on from day to day, Thus does he poison, kill an' slay,
An's well paid fort; Yet stops me o' my lawfu’ prey,
Wi' his d-mn'á dirt:
" But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot,
As dead's a herrin; Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!"
But just as he began to tell,
Which rais'd us haith :
And sae did Death.
Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with
reason; But surely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason.
[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.]
May heav'n augment your hlisses,
An humble Poet wishes!
On sic a day as this is,
Sae fine this day.
By monie a lord and lady;
That's unco easy said ay;
Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,
On sic a day.
Ev’n there I winna flatter;
Am I your humble debtor;
Your kingship to bespatter;
Than you this day.
"Tis very true, my sov'ring king,
My skill may weel be doubted;
An' downa be disputed:
Is een right reft an' clouted,
Than did ae day.
To blame your legislation,
To rule this mighty nation!
Ye've trusted ministration
Than courts yon day.
VI. And now ye’ve gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster; Your sair taxation does her fleece,
Till she has scarce a tester;