XXII.

A vast unbottom❜d boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat,

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!

The half asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neebor snorin

Asleep that day.

XXIII.

'Twad be owre lang a tale, to tell

How monie stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms an' benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

XXIV.

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife,

The auld Guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

XXV.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives be mindfu', ance yoursel
How bonie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

XXVI.

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin tow,

Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith and hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune,

For crack that day.

XXVII.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane, As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

DEATH

AND

DOCTOR HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd :
Ev'n Ministers they hae been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the Deil's in h-II

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The 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 Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;

Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,

I took a bicker.

I there