He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi Buchan

And ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin,

An pouk my hips.

‘See, here’s a scythe, an there’s a dart,

They hae piercd monie a gallant heart;

But Doctor Hornbook wi his art

An cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a fart,

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 slain;

But Deil-ma’care!

It just playd dirl on 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 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 try’d a quarry

O hard whin-rock.

‘Ev’n them he canna get attended,

Altho their face he ne’er had kend it,

Just shite in a kail-blade, an 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 and mettles,

A’ kinds o boxes, mugs, and 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-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 monie mae.

‘Waes me for Johnie Ged’s-Hole now,’

Quoth 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 needna yoke the pleugh,

Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,

Tak ye nae fear:

They’ll a’ be trench’d wi monie a sheugh,

In twa-three year.

‘Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae death

By loss o blood or want o 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 bonie 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 set her aff to her lang hame

To hide it there.

‘That’s just a swatch o Hornbook’s way;