Nae doubt they 'll rive it wi' the plew; And 6 says, Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear : They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh, • Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want of breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's skill Has clad a score i' their last claith, By drap an' pill. 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 wife slade cannie to her bed, • But ne'er spak mair. A countra 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 bonie lass, ye kend 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, Yet stops me o' my An's weel paid for 't; lawfu' prey, Wi' his d-mn'd dirt: But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, 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, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal, Which rais'd us baith: I took the way that pleas'd mysel, And sae did Death. THE BRIGS OF AYR, A POEM. INSCRIBED TO J. B ESQ. AYR, THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, hill; Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field; DS Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose! 'T was when the stacks get on their winter-hap, : |