'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.'

'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'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 weel acquaint wi' Buchan
An' 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 pierced mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art

And cursed skill,

Has made them baith no worth a

Damned haet they'll kill.

'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,

It just played dirl on the bane,

But did nae mair.

'Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, And had sae fortified the part, That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt,

Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart
O' 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 tried a quarry
O' hard whin-rock.

'Even them he canna get attended, Although their face he ne'er had kenned it, in a kail-blade, and send it,

Just

As soon 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, an' mettles,
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles,
He's sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A, B, C.

'Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas;

The farina o' beans and pease,

He has 't in plenty;

Aquafortis, what you please,

He can content ye.

'Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons;

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings; Distilled per se;

Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings.

And mony mae.'

'Wae's me for Johnnie Ged's Hole now,'
Quo' I, 'if that the news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white and bonnie.
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew;
They 'll ruin Johnnie!'

The creature grained an eldritch laugh, And says, 'Ye need na yoke the pleugh, Kirk-yards will soon be tilled eneugh, Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trenched wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year.

'Whare I killed 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 taen the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,

And pays him well.
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets,
Was laird himsel'.

'A bonnie lass, ye kenned her name,"
Some ill-brewn drink had hoved her wame;
She trusts hersel', to hide the shame,
In Hornbook's care;

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.

'That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

An's weel paid for 't;

Yet stops me o' my

lawfu' prey

Wi' his damned dirt!

'But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot,

As dead's a herrin';

Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

He's get his fairin'!'

But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,

Which raised us baith:

I took the way that pleased mysel',
And sae did Death.

THE ORDINATION.*

For sense they little owe to frugal Heaven-
To please the mob they hide the little given.'
KILMARNOCK wabsters fidge an' claw,
An' pour your creeshie nations;
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Of a' denominations,

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a',
An' there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,
An' pour divine libations

For joy this day.

Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell,

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
An' Russell sair misca'd her;
This day M'Kinlay taks the flail,
An' he's the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her tail,
An' set the bairns to daud her,

Wi' dirt this day.

Mak haste and turn King David owre,

And lilt wi' holy clangor;

O' double verse come gie us four,

An' skirl up the Bangor:

Written on the admission of the Rev. Mr. M'Kinlay as one of the ministers of the Parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock.