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SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'de
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kennd,

In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

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But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on ? night befel,
Is just as true's the Đeil's in h-11,

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 downí on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

å To keep me sicker ; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,

1. I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither ;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-taed leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twe,
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’

L'As cheeks o' branks :

Guid-een,' quo' I; Friend! hge ye been mawin,

When ither folk are busy sawin ?* It seem'd to mak a kind o stan',

But naething spak ;

This rencounter happened in-seed-time, 1786

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At length, says I, Friend, whare ye gaun, o'? • Will ye go back?'

isdi It spak right howe, My name is Death, • But be na' fley'd' Quoth I, Guid faith, Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 9 en I

But tent me billie ; .. I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, ,

* See, there's a gully!

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• Guidman,' quo' he, put ap your whittle,
• I'm no design’d to try its mettle ; -
• But if I did, I wad be kittle

; "To be mislcard, i cr' • I wad na'mind it, no, that spittle




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• Weel, weel!' says I, a bargain be't ;

Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't ; "We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat,

Come, gies your news; • This while* ye hae been mony a gates:

* At móny a house.'

“Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head,
It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 16-1

• An choke the breath :" de,** * Folk maun do something for their bread, ;

An' sae maun Death.

An epidemical fever was then raging in that eountry.

• Sax thousand years are near hand ied.
• 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,

An' faith, he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,
• Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan !
• He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchant

An' ither chaps,
• The weans haud out their fingers laughin

And pouk my hips.

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See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, • They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; • But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art

* And cursed skill, • Has made them baith no worth a f-t,

• Damn'd haet they'll kill.

• 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
"I threw a noble throw at ane;
• Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundred's slain;

• But deil-ma-care, • It just play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

* This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula ; but, by intuition and ins spiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Physician,

Buchan's Domestic Medicine,

Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,

And had sae fortify'd the part, * That when I looked to my dart,

• It was sae blunt, * Fient haet o't wad-hae pierc'd the heart: HIT

Of a kail-runt.

I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
• I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry,
• But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock; $ I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

O'hard whin rock.

$ Ev’n them he canna get attended,
• Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it,
• Just in á kail-blade, and send it,

• As soon he smells't,
. Baith their disease, and what will mend it,

At once he tells't.

. And then a' doctor's saws and whittles.
. Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,

* He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles

* As A B C.

* Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees;

True Sal-marinum, o' the seas; *The Farina of beans and

• He has't in plentyn

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