Gerard Carruthers

FOLK-TALES FOR AN
ENLIGHTENED AGE

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 kend,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid at times to vend,

And nail’t wi Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,

Which lately on a night befel,

Is just as true’s the Deil’s in Hell

Or Dublin city:

That e’er he nearer comes oursel

’S a muckle pity!

The clachan yill had made me canty,

I was na fou, but just had plenty:

I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay

To free the ditches;

An hillocks, stanes, an bushes, ken’d ay

Frae ghaists an witches.

The rising moon began to glowr

The distant Cumnock Hills out-owre:

To count her horns, wi a’ my pow’r,

I set myself,

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 whyles, against my will,

I took a bicker.

I there wi Something does 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, large an lang.

Its stature seem’d lang 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-e’en’, quo I; ‘Friend! hae ye been mawin,

When ither folk are busy sawin?’

It seem’d to mak 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’ – Quoth I, ‘Guid faith,

Ye’re may be come 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 design’d 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;

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 monie a gate,

At monie 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 monie 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?

Defl mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan!