"Hornbrook 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.

"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 tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals,
A'kinds o' boxes, mugs, and 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 peas,

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 Hole (31) now,"
Quo' I; "if that thae news be true,
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonny,

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They'll ruin Johnny!"

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh,
And says,
"Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
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 wabster to his trade,
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-bred,
Gat tippence worth to mend her head,
When it was sair ;

The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair.

"A countra laird had taen the batts,
Or rome curmurring in his guts;
His only son for Hornbook sets,
And pays him well-

The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;

Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay,
An's weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey
Wi' his curs'd dirt:

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

As dead's a herrin': Neist 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 Boly Fair.

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget show'd,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a inantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE. (11.)

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,
When Nature's face is fair,

I walked forth to view the corn,
And snuff the cauler air,
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirplin' down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way;
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third, that gaed a-wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining,
Fu' gay that day.

There, racer, Jess (33), and twa-three wh-res, Are blinkin' at the entry.

Here sits a raw of tittlin' jauds,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
And there a batch o' wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock
For fun this day.

Here sum are thinkin' on their sins,
And some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyi'd his shins,
Anither sighs and prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o'chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that day.

Oh happy is that man and blest!

(Nae wonder that it pride him!) Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, Comes clinkin' down beside him! Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, He sweetly does compose him; Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, An's loof upon her bosom,

Unkenn'd that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation:
For Moodie speels the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion. (34)
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The vera sight o' Moodie's face,
To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi rattlin' and wi' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' and he's jumpin'!
IIis lengthened chin, his turn'd-up snout,
His eldritch squeal and gestures,

Oh, how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,
On sic a day!

But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice:
There's peace and rest nae langer;

For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

Smith opens out his cauld harangues (35),
On practice and on morals;
And aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars and barrels
A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine,

Of moral powr's and reason? His English style and gesture fine Are a' clean out o' season.

Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in
That's right that day.
In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum ;
For Peebles, frae the water-fit (36),
Ascends the holy rostrum :
See, up he's got the word o' God,

And meek and mim has view'd it, While Common Sense (37) has ta'en the road,

And aff, and up the Cowgate (38),
Fast, fast, that day.

Wee Miller (39) neist the guard relieves,
And orthodoxy raibles,

Tho' in his heart he weel believes,

And thinks it auld wives' fables;
But, faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So, cannily he hums them;

Altho' his carnal wit and sense
Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him
At times that day.

Now butt and ben the change-house fills,
Wi' yill-caup commentators;

Here's crying out for bakes and gills,

And there the pint-stoup clatters;

His talk o' hell, whare devils dwell,
Our vera sauls does harrow (41)
Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat,
Wad meit the hardest whun-stane!
The half asleep start up wi' fear,
And think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear
'Twas but some neebor snorin'
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre long a tale, to tell
How monie stories past,
And how they crowded to the yill
When they were a' dismist :
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups,
Amang the furms and benches :
And cheese and bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,
And dauds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,
And sits down by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck and her knife
The lasses they are shyer.

The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,

lang,

Wi' logic and 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 gies 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 drinking deep,
To pittle up our notion

By night or day.

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

On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk,
They're making observations;

While some are cozie i' the neuk,
And formin' assignations

To meet some day.

But now the L-d's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',
And echoes back return the shouts-
Black Russell (40) is na sparin':

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

And gi'es them't like a tether,
Fu' lang that day.

Waesuck! for him that gets nae lass,

Or lasses that hae nathing!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,

Or melvie his braw claithing!
Oh wives be mindfu' ance yoursel
How bonny lads ye wanted,
And dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,
Begins to jow and croon ;

Some swagger hame the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lassess trip their shoon:

Wi' faith and hope, and love and 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 gano, As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou' o' brandy;
And many jobs that day begin
May end in houghmagandy,
Some ither day.