| |
| 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, | 5 |
| And nail’t wi’ Scripture. | |
| |
| But this that I am gaun to tell, | |
| Which lately on a night befell, | |
| Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell | |
| Or Dublin city: | 10 |
| 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 whiles, but yet too tent aye | 15 |
| To free the ditches; | |
| An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye | |
| Frae ghaists an’ witches. | |
| |
| The rising moon began to glowre | |
| The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| An’ todlin down on Willie’s mill, | |
| Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill, | |
| To keep me sicker; | |
| Tho’ leeward whiles, against my will, | |
| I took a bicker. | 30 |
| |
| I there wi’ Something did forgather, | |
| That pat me in an eerie swither; | |
| An’ awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther, | |
| Clear-dangling, hang; | |
| A three-tae’d leister on the ither | 35 |
| Lay, large an’ lang. | |
| |
| Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa, | |
| The queerest shape that e’er I saw, | |
| For fient a wame it had ava; | |
| And then its shanks, | 40 |
| They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’ | |
| As cheeks o’ branks. | |
| |
| “Guid-een,” quo’ I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin, | |
| When ither folk are busy sawin!” 1 | |
| I seem’d to make a kind o’ stan’ | 45 |
| But naething spak; | |
| At length, says I, “Friend! whare ye gaun? | |
| Will ye go back?” | |
| |
| It spak right howe,—“My name is Death, | |
| But be na fley’d.”—Quoth I, “Guid faith, | 50 |
| Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath; | |
| But tent me, billie; | |
| I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith | |
| See, there’s a gully!” | |
| |
| “Gudeman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle, | 55 |
| I’m no designed to try its mettle; | |
| But if I did, I wad be kittle | |
| To be mislear’d; | |
| I wad na mind it, no that spittle | |
| Out-owre my beard.” | 60 |
| |
| “Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t; | |
| Come, gie’s your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t; | |
| We’ll ease our shanks an tak a seat— | |
| Come, gie’s your news; | |
| This while ye hae been mony a gate, | 65 |
| At mony a house.” 2 | |
| |
| “Ay, ay!” quo’ he, an’ shook his head, | |
| “It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed | |
| Sin’ I began to nick the thread, | |
| An’ choke the breath: | 70 |
| Folk maun do something for their bread, | |
| An’ sae maun Death. | |
| |
| “Sax thousand years are near-hand fled | |
| Sin’ I was to the butching bred, | |
| An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid, | 75 |
| To stap or scar me; | |
| Till ane Hornbook’s 3 ta’en up the trade, | |
| And faith! he’ll waur me. | |
| |
| “Ye ken Hornbook i’ the clachan, | |
| Deil mak his king’s-hood in spleuchan! | 80 |
| He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan 4 | |
| And ither chaps, | |
| The weans haud out their fingers laughin, | |
| An’ pouk my hips. | |
| |
| “See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s dart, | 85 |
| They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart; | |
| But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art | |
| An’ cursed skill, | |
| Has made them baith no worth a f—t, | |
| D—n’d haet they’ll kill! | 90 |
| |
| “’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, | 95 |
| But did nae mair. | |
| |
| “Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art, | |
| An’ had sae fortify’d the part, | |
| That when I looked to my dart, | |
| It was sae blunt, | 100 |
| Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart | |
| Of a kail-runt. | |
| |
| “I drew my scythe in sic a fury, | |
| I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry, | |
| But yet the bauld Apothecary | 105 |
| Withstood the shock; | |
| I might as weel hae tried a quarry | |
| O’ hard whin rock. | |
| |
| “Ev’n them he canna get attended, | |
| Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it, | 110 |
| Just —— in a kail-blade, an’ sent 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 an’ whittles, | 115 |
| 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 B C. | 120 |
| |
| “Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees; | |
| True sal-marinum o’ the seas; | |
| The farina of beans an’ pease, | |
| He has’t in plenty; | |
| Aqua-fontis, what you please, | 125 |
| He can content ye. | |
| |
| “Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, | |
| Urinus spiritus of capons; | |
| Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, | |
| Distill’d per se; | 130 |
| Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings, | |
| And mony mae.” | |
| |
| “Waes me for Johnie Ged’s-Hole 5 now,” | |
| Quoth I, “if that thae news be true! | |
| His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, | 135 |
| Sae white and bonie, | |
| Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew; | |
| They’ll ruin Johnie!” | |
| |
| The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh, | |
| And says “Ye needna yoke the pleugh, | 140 |
| Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh, | |
| Tak ye nae fear: | |
| They’ll be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh, | |
| In twa-three year. | |
| |
| “Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death, | 145 |
| 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. | 150 |
| |
| “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, | 155 |
| 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: | 160 |
| 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, | 165 |
| 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, | 170 |
| Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay, | |
| An’s weel paid for’t; | |
| Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey, | |
| Wi’ his d—n’d dirt: | |
| |
| “But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot, | 175 |
| Tho’ dinna ye be speakin 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!” | 180 |
| |
| 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’, | 185 |
| And sae did Death. | |
