Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,
For fient a wame1 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 ?”3

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

But naething spak;

At length, says I, "Friend, whare ye gaun,

Will ye go back ?"

66

It spak right howe1-" 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,6

See, there's a gully !"7

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

But if I did, I wad be kittles

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,

This while10

Come, gies your news;

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.

9 "Put out of my art."--Chambers.

7 A large knife.

10 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.-R. B.

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled,
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scaur me;
Till ane Hornbook's1 ta'en up the trade,
An' faith, he'll waur2 me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan,3
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan !+
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan
An' ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin
And pouk my hips.

"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

D-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 hundreds slain :
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 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

Of a kail-runt."

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpits wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary

Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae try'd a quarry

O' hard whin rock.

1 This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.-R. B.

Worse. 3 Small village. Tobacco-pouch.
6 A slight stroke.

5 "Buchan's Domestic Medicine."-R. B.

7 A cabbage-root.

8 Tumbled.

"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, earths, 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;

Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippings,

And mony mae."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole1 now,”
Quo' I, "if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,

Sae white and bonnie,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;

They'll ruin Johnnie!"
The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says,
"Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,

Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh3
In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death,*
By loss o' blood or want o' breath,
This night I'm free to tak my aith,

That Hornbook's skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,

By drap and pill.

"An honest Wabster5 to his trade,

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

When it was sair;

The wife slade" cannie to her bed,

But ne'er spak mair.

1 The grave-digger.-R. B.
5 Weaver.

2 Daisies.

3 Ditch.

4 A death in bed.

6 Did slide.

"A countra Laird had ta'en the batts,1
Or some curmurring2 in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,

An' pays him well.

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

3

Was Laird himsel.

"A bonnie lass, ye kend her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd4 her wame:
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,

In Hornbook's care:

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,

To hide it there.

"That's just a swatch5 o' Hornbook's way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

An's weel pay'd for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

Wi' his d-d dirt.

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited Sot

As dead's a herrin;

Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

He gets his fairin !"

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

Which rais'd us baith:

I took the way that pleas'd mysel,

And sae did Death.

THE BRIGS OF AYR.

A POEM.

INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQ., AYR.

THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush;
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;

1 Bots. 2 A rumbling. 5 Sample.

3 Two-year old sheep. 4 Swelled.

6 Bet.

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,
By early poverty to hardship steel'd,

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field;
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace,
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace;
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name,
And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame,
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells,
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,
And thack' and rape secure the toil-won crap;
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith3
O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils, smoor'd1 wi' brimstone reek;
The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud of the height o' some bit half-lang tree:
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.

'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward,

1 Thatch.

2 Potato heaps. s Injury.

4 Smothered.