Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
59 . Death and Dr. Hornbook
S
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.
Which lately on a night befell, Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell Or Dublin city: That e’er he nearer comes oursel’ ’S a muckle pity. I was na fou, but just had plenty; I stacher’d whiles, but yet too tent aye To free the ditches; An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye Frae ghaists an’ witches. 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. 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. That pat me in an eerie swither; Clear-dangling, hang; A three-tae’d leister on the ither Lay, large an’ lang. The queerest shape that e’er I saw, For fient a wame it had ava; And then its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’ As cheeks o’ branks. When ither folk are busy sawin!” I seem’d to make a kind o’ stan’ But naething spak; At length, says I, “Friend! whare ye gaun? Will ye go back?” But be na fley’d.”—Quoth I, “Guid faith, 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!” 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.” 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, At mony a house.” “It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed Sin’ I began to nick the thread, An’ choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, An’ sae maun Death. Sin’ I was to the butching bred, An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade, And faith! he’ll waur me. Deil mak his king’s-hood in spleuchan! He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan And ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin, An’ pouk my hips. 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! 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. An’ had sae fortify’d the part, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart Of a kail-runt. 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. Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it, 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. 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. True sal-marinum o’ the seas; The farina of beans an’ pease, He has’t in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. Urinus spiritus of capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill’d per se; Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings, And mony mae.” Quoth I, “if that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew; They’ll ruin Johnie!” And says “Ye needna yoke the pleugh, Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh, Tak ye nae fear: They’ll be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh, In twa-three year. 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. 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. 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’. 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. 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 d—n’d dirt: 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!” 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.