well-nigh

butchering

stop, scare

worst

village

second stomach,

tobacco pouch (Author of Domestic Medicine)

children

poke

Devil a thing

last night

rang, bone

Devil a bit cabbage-stalk

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

Till ane Hornbook's ta'en 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 well acquaint wi' Buchan
An' 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 pierc'd mony a gallant heart;

But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
And cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a fart!
Damn'd haet they'll kill.

"Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
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.

'Hornbook was by wi' ready art,
And had sae fortified the part
That, when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart
O' 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 tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

'E'en them he canna get attended,

Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it,

Just sh in a kail-blade, and send it,

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 and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' 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 pease,

He has❜t in plenty;

Aqua-fortis, what you please,

He can content ye.

'Forbye some new uncommon weapons,

Urinus spiritus of capons;

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,

Distill'd per se;

Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,

And mony mae.'

upset

cabbage-leaf

Besides

more

weaver by fists

'An honest wabster to his trade,

aching

slid quietly

botts

commotion

pet-ewes

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-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 country laird had ta'en 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 bonnie 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.

raised, belly

A few miscellaneous poems remain to be quoted. These do not naturally fall into any of the major classes of Burns's work, yet are too

struck

beyond, twelve

got us to our feet

important either for their intrinsic worth or the light they throw on his character and genius to be omitted. The Elegies, of which he wrote many, following, as has been seen, the tradition founded by Sempill of Beltrees, may be exemplified by Tam Samson's Elegy and that on Captain Matthew Henderson. Special phases of Scottish patriotism are expressed in Scotch Drink, and the address To a Haggis; while more personal is A Bard's Epitaph. In this last we have Burns's summing up of his own character, and it closes with his recommendation of the virtue he strove after but could never attain.

twisted

worse, everybody

groan weep alone

clothe, child

rent in kind

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson again grown weel,

To preach an' read?
'Na, waur than a'l' cries ilka chiel,
'Tam Samson's dead!'

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;

To death, she's dearly paid the kane,-
Tam Samson's dead!