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 this that i am gaun to tell,

whichtely on a night befell,

is just as true's the deil's in hell

or dublin city:

that e'er he nearer es oursel'

's a muckle pity.

the chan yill had made me canty,

i was na fou, but just had plenty;

i stacher'd whiles, but yet too tent aye

to free the ditches;

an' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd eye

frae ghaists an' witches.

the rising moon began to glowre

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 e round about the hill,

an' todlin down on willie's mill,

setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

to keep me sicker;

tho' leeward whiles, against my will,

i took a bicker.

i there wi' something did forgather,

that pat me in an eerie swither;

an' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

clear-dangling, hang;

a three-tae'd leister on the ither

lay,rge an'ng.

its stature seem'dng 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!”

i seem'd to make a kind o' stan'

but naething spak;

at length, says i, “friend! whare ye gaun?

will ye go back?”

it spak right howe,—“my name is death,

but be na fley'd.”—h i, “guid faith,

ye're maybe e to stap my breath;

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 designed 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;

e, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;

we'll ease our shanks an tak a seat—

e, gie's your news;

this while ye hae been mony a gate,

at mony a house.”

“ay, ay!” quo' he, an' shook his head,

“it's e'en ang,ng 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,

an' mony a scheme in vain's beenid,

to stap or scar me;

till ane hornbook's ta'en up the trade,

and faith! he'll waur me.

“ye ken hornbook i' the chan,

deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!

he's grown sae weel acquaint wi' buchan

and ither chaps,

the weans haud out their fingersughin,

an' pouk my hips.

“see, here's a scythe, an' there's dart,

they hae pierc'd mony a gant heart;

but doctor hornbook, wi' his art

an' cursed skill,

has made them baith no worth a f-t,

damn'd haet they'll kill!

“'twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,

i threw a noble throw at ane;

wi' less, i'm sure, i've hundreds in;