Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre proud and high shou'd turn,
That he's sae gifted:

If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until Thou lift it.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
An' blast their name,

Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
An' public shame.

Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts; He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin arts,

Wi' great and sma',

Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa.

An' when we chasten'd him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,

An' set the warld in a roar

O' laughing at us;

Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail an' potatoes.

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,

Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it bare Upo' their heads;

Lord visit them, an' dinna spare,

For their misdeeds.

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My vera heart and flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood sweatin', shakin,
An' p-'d wi' dread,

While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,

Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em,

Nor hear their pray'r, But for Thy people's sake, destroy 'em, An' dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me an' mine

Wi' mercies temp'ral an' divine,

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

HERE Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;

His saul has ta'en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;

Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, Sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit;

A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent
ye did it.

DOCTOR HORNBOOK

A TRUE STORY

ware lies frae end to end,
a great lies were never penn❜d:
misters they hae been kenn'd,
In holy rapture,

Asag whid at times to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture.

this that I am gaun to tell, Which lately on a night befell, 's 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 whiles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel';

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 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-een," quo' I; "Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin!” 1

It seem'd to make 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 maybe 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 designed 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 mony a gate,
At mony a house." 2

1 This rencontre happened in seed-time, 1785.—R. B. 2 An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.-R. B.

"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's3 ta'en up the trade,
And faith! he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
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 pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art
An' cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a f―t,
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 play'd dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by, wi' ready art,
An' had sae fortify'd the part,

3 This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.-R. B. 4 Buchan's Domestic Medicine.-R. B.