It feem'd to mak a kind o’stan', But naething fpak ; At length, fays 1, Friend, whare ye gaun, ་ But be na fiey'd,'- Quoth I, Guid faith, Ye're maybe come to flap my breath; But tent me, billie; I red ye well, tak care o' fkaith, But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd, • I wad na' mind it, no that fpittle • Out-owre my beard.' Weel, weel!' fays I, a bargain be't; Come gies your hand, an' fae we're gree't,' We'll ease our fhanks an' tak a feat, Come, gies your news! This while * ye hae been mony a gate, At mony a house.' Ay, ay; quo' he, an' fhook his head, It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed * An epidemical fever was then raging in that country. Sin' I began to nick the thread, An' choke the breath: Folk maun do fomething for their bread, Sax thousand years are near hand fled Sin' I was to the butching bred, And mony a scheme in vain's been laid, To ftap or fear me ; Till ane Hornbook's* ta'en up the trade, And faith, hell waur me. Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin, See, here's a fcyth, and there's a dart, They hac pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And curfed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f-t, • D--n'd haet they'll kill! *This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is, profeffionally, a bro ther of the fovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Fhyfician. Buchan's Domestic Medicine. 'Twas but yeftreen, nae farther I threw a noble throw at ane; gaen, 'Wi' lefs, I'm fure, I've hundreds flain ; But deil-ma-care! It just play'd dirl on the bane, • But did nae mair. • Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, • And had fae fortify'd the part, That when I looked to my dart, It was fae blunt, 'Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart Of a kail-runt. I drew my fcythe in fic 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. E'en them he canna get attended, Altho' their face he ne'er had kend it, Juft fhin a kail-blade and fend it, As foon's he fmells't, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, • And then a' doctor's faws and whittles, ⚫ Of a' dimensions, fhapes, an' mettles, 'A' kinds of boxes, mugs, an' bottles, "He's fure to hae; Their Latin names as faft he rattles • As A B C. Calces o' foffils, earths, and trees; True Sal marinum o' the feas; The Farina of beans and peafe, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fontis, what you please, He can content ye. Forbye fome new, uncommon weapons Urinus Spiritus of capons; Or Mite-horn fhavings, filings, fcrapings, Diftill'd per fe ; Sal alkali o' midge-tail clippings, • And mony mae.' 'W'ae's me for Johnny Ged's-hole* now,' Quoth I, if that thae news be true ! • His brae calf ward whare gowens grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they'll rive it with the plew; They'll ruin Johnnie ! The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, An' fays, Ye needna yoke the pleugh, • Kirk-yards will foon be till d eneugh, Tak ye nae fear. *The Grave-digger. They'll a' be trench'd wi mony a fheugh,. • Where 1 kill'd ane, a fair ftrae-death, By lofs o' blood, or want o' breath, This night I'm free to tak my aith, That Hornbook's fkill Has clad a fcore i' their laft claith, By drap and pill. 'An honeft Wabfter to his trade, Whafe wife's twa nieves were fcarce weel-bred, Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, When it was fair; The wife flade cannie to her. bed, "But ne'er fpak mair. A Countra Laird had ta'en the batts, • Or fome cormurring in his guts, His only fon for Hornbook fets, And pays him well, The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 'Was Laird himfel. A bonie lafs, ye kend her name, Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame, She trufts herfel, to hide her fhame, In Hornbook's care; Horn fent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there. |