The Complete Works. Robert Burns

At length, says I, “Friend, where 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 may be come to stap my breath;

       But tent me, billie;

       I red ye weel, take care o’ skaith,

       See, there’s a gully!”

      “Guidman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle,

       I’m no design’d to try its mettle;

       But if I did, I wad be kittle

       To be mislear’d,

       I wad nae 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,

       Come, gies 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 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.

      “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 scar me;

       Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,

       An’ faith, he’ll waur me.

      “Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan,

       Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan!

He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan[6] 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 f——t,

       Damn’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 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 near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,

       But yet the bauld Apothecary,

       Withstood the shock;

       I might as weel hae tried a quarry

       O’ hard whin rock.

      “Ev’n them he canna get attended,

       Although their face he ne’er had kend it,

       Just sh—— in a kail-blade, and send it,

       As soon’s he smells’t,

       Baith their disease, and what will mend it,

       At once he tells’t.

      “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-fortis, 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[7] now,” Quo’ I, “If that thae news be true! His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, Sae white and bonie, Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew; They’ll ruin Johnie!”

      The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,

       And says, “Ye need na yoke the plough,

       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 of breath,

       This night I’m free to tak my aith,

       That Hornbook’s skill

       Has clad a score i’ their last claith,

       By drap an’ pill.

      “An honest wabster 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

      “A countra laird had ta’en the batts,

       Or some curmurring in his guts,

       His only son for Hornbook sets,

       An’ pays him well.

       The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,

       Was laird himsel.

      “A bonnie lass, ye kend her name,

       Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d 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 swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;

       Thus goes he on from day to day,

       Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,

       An’s weel paid for’t;

       Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,

       Wi’ his d—mn’d dirt: