Folk maun do something for their bread, "Sax thousand years are near hand fled An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade, "Ye ken Jock Hornbook, 'the Clachan, The weans haud out their fingers laughin, "See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f―t, ""Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, It just play'd dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. • This gentleman, Dr Hornbook, is, professionally, a brother of the sovereign order of the Ferula, but, by intuition and inspiration, is al once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician. ↑ Buchan's Domestic Medicine. "Hornbook was by, wi' ready art Fient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart "I drew my scythe in sic a fury, I near haud cowpit wi' my hurry ; But yet the bauld Apothecary Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry "Ev'n them he canna get attended, Baith their disease, and what will mend it, "And then a' doctor's saws an' whittles, Their Latin names as fast he rattles "Calces o" fossils, earth, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and peas, He has't in plenty : Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can content ye. "Forbye, some new, uncommon weapons, Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, Sal alkali o' midge-tail-clippings, And monie mae." "Wae's me for Johnny Ged's Hole now," Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh; The creature grain'd an eldrictch laugh, They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh, "Whare I kill'd ane, a fair strae death, "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 grave-digger. The wife slade cannie to her bed, "A countra laird had taen the batts, The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, "A bonie lass, ye kenn'd her name, Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, "That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, "But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, As dead's a herrin; Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, Some wee short hour ayont the twal, I took the way that pleas'd mysel', And sae did Death. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; [On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the following address.] I. GUID morning to your Majesty! May heav'n augment your blisses, I see ye're complimented thrang, By monie a lord and lady; That's unco easy said ay; The Poets, too, a venal gang |