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 this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,

Is just as true's the Deil's in hell

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, an' bushes, kenn'd ay
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising Moon began to glowr
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 wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;