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 scaur 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 king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan
Ân' 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,