In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For Peebles, frae the Water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum :
See, up he's got the word o' God,
An' meek an' mim has view'd it,
While Common Sense has ta'en the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate

Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller, niest, the guard relieves,

An' Orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
But, faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So, cannilie he hums them;
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense

Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him

At times that day.

Now, but an' ben, the change-house fills, Wi' yill-caup commentators:

Here's crying out for bakes an' gills,

An' there the pint-stowp clatters; While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,

They raise a din, that in the end

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on Drink! it gi'es us mair
Than either School or College:
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair,
It pangs us fou o' Knowledge.
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,

It never fails, on drinkin' deep,

To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer about the toddy.

On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,
They're makin' observations;

While some are cozie i' the neuk,

An' formin' assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',

An' echoes back-return the shouts ;
Black Russel is na spairin':

His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' Hell, whare devils dwell,

Our vera "6 sauls does harrow"

Wi' fright that day!

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whunstane!

The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neebor snorin'

Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell
How monie stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill,
When they were a' dismist :

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms and benches;

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
The lasses they are shyer.

The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

Now clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow,

Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,

Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses !

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane

As saft as ony flesh is.

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.

SOM

Death and Doctor Hornbook

A True Story

COME 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 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.

The clachan yill had made me canty,

I wasna fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 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 pat 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 twa,

The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For fient a wame it had ava,

And then its shanks,

As cheeks o' branks.

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been

mawin'

When ither folk are busy sawin'?"

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

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, 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!"

"" Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no design'd to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

Out-owre my beard."

I wad na mind it, no that spittle

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't;