Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,

An' screen our countra Gentry,
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores,
Are blinkin' at the entry.
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades,

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck,
An' there a batch of wabster lads,
-ck,
Blackguardin' frae K-
For fun this day.
X.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins,

An' some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays;
On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that day.

See there's a gully!'

Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,

When ither folk are busy sawin'?' •

It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan',

But naething spak :

At length, says I, 'Friend, where ye gaun, Will ye go back?"

That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt,

Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt.

I drew my scythe in sic a fury,

An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally

a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician.

+ Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now ;' Quo' I,If that the news be true! His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, Sae white an' bonnie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough;
They'll ruin Johnny!

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
An' says, Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,

Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year.

'' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want o' 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,

Was laird himsel'.

A bonnie lass, ye ken 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 weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

Wi' his damn'd dirt.

'But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot,

As dead's a herrin'; Neist 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 pleased mysel',
And sae did Death.

field

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,

The grave-digger.

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace,
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When B- - befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame,