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 whidat times to vend,
And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
But this that I am gaunto tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell
Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer comes oursel’
‘S a mucklepity.
The clachanyillhad 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
Fraeghaists an’ witches.
The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi’ a my pow’r,
I setmysel’;
But whether she had three or four,
I cou’d na tell.
I was come 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 patme in an eerieswither;
An’ awfu’ scythe, out-owre aeshouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d leisteron the ither
Lay, large an’ lang.
Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e’erI saw,
For fient awameit 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!”^1
I seem’d to make a kind o’ stan’
But naethingspak;
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.”-Quoth I, “Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath;
But tentme, billie;
I redye 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 namindit, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard.”
“Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t;
Come, gie’s your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our shanks an tak a seat-
Come, gie’s your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house.”^2
“Ay, ay!” quo’he, an’ shook his head,
“It’s e’ena lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to nickthe thread,
An’ choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An’ sae maunDeath.
“Sax thousand years are near-hand fled
Sin’I was to the butching bred,
An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid,
To stapor scarme;
TillaneHornbook’s^3ta’en up the trade,
And faith! he’ll waurme.
“Ye kenHornbook i’ the clachan,
Deilmakhis king’s-hoodin spleuchan!
He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan^4
And itherchaps,
The weans haudout their fingers laughin,
An’ poukmy hips.
“See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s dart,
They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
An’ cursed skill,
Has made them baith nowortha f-t,
Damn’d haetthey’ll kill!
“‘Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play’d dirlon the bane,
But did nae mair.
“Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,
An’ had sae fortify’d the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haeto’twad hae pierc’d the heart
Of a kail-runt.
“I drew my scythe in sica fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
But yet the bauldApothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel haetried a quarry
O’ hard whin rock.
“Ev’n them he cannagetattended,
Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it,
Just-in a kail-blade, an’ sent it,
As soon’s he smells ‘t,
Baiththeir disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells ‘t.
“And then, a’ doctor’s saws an’ whittles,
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,
A’kind 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 an’ 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 Johnie Ged’s^5Hole now,”
Quoth I, “if that thaenews be true!
His brawcalf-wardwhare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt they’ll riveit wi’ the plew;
They’ll ruin Johnie!”
The creature grain’dan eldritchlaugh,
And says “Ye neednayoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye naefear:
They’ll be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh,
In twa-threeyear.
“Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood or want of breath
This night I’m free to takmy aith,
That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’their last claith,
By drapan’ pill.
“An honest wabsterto his trade,
Whasewife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred
Gattippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair;
The wife sladecannieto her bed,
But ne’er spakmair.
“A country laird had ta’en the batts,
Orsome curmurringin his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
An’ pays him well:
The lad, for twaguidgimmer-pets,
Was lairdhimsel’.
“A bonielass-ye kend her name-
Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame;
She trusts hersel’, to hide the shame,
In Hornbook’s care;
Hornsent her affto her langhame,
To hide it there.
“That’s just a swatcho’ Hornbook’s way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an’slay,
An’s weelpaid for’t;
Yet stops me o’my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’his damn’d dirt:
“But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinnaye be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,
As dead’s a herrin;
Neisttime we meet, I’ll wada groat,
He gets his fairin!”
Butjust as he began to tell,
The auldkirk-hammer strakthe bell
Some weeshort hour ayontthe twal’,
Which rais’d us baith:
I took the way that pleas’d mysel’,
And saedid Death.