XXVII.

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.

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

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

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 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

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 twa,
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.

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?'

* This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785.

It

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;

• 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,

'I wad na mind it, no, that spittle

"Out-owre my beard.'

'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 gate,

"At móny a house."

· Ay,

* An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.