There's some are fou o' love divine; Some ither day. DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. A TRUE STORY. SOME books are lies frae end to end, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Or Dublin city: That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. The clachan yill had made me canty, I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay The rising moon began to glowr The distant Cumnock hills out-owre: But whether she had three or four, I was come round about the hill, To keep me sicker; I there wi' something did forgather, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay, large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, They were as thin, as sharp an' sma’ And then its shanks, As cheeks o' branks. 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?' 1 This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. It spak right howe,- My name is Death, But tent me billie; I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See there's a gully!' 'Gudeman,' 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, I wad na mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard.' 'Weel, weel! (says I) a bargain be't; Come, gies your news; This while 3 ye hae been mony a gate At mony 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, An' choke the breath: 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, 2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To stap or scar me; Till ane Hornbook's 3 ta'en up the trade, An' faith, he'll waur me. 'Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, The weans baud out their fingers laughin 'See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f―t, Damn'd haet they'll kill. ''Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, But deil-ma-care, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. 'Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was sae blunt, Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, was, professionally, a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula but, by intuition and inspiration, an apothecary, surgeon, and physician. 4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine. '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, in a kail-blade, and send it, Just 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, He's sure to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; True Sal-marinum o' the seas; The Farina of beans and pease, He has❜t in plenty ; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. 'Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus Spiritus of capons; Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Distill'd per se; And mony mae. Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail-clippings, |