What is reputation's care?

If we lead a life of pleasure, 'Tis no matter how or where!

A fig, &c.

With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay.

A fig, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage Through the country lighter rove?

Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love?

A fig, &c.

Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose.

A fig, &c.

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!

Here's to all the wandering train!

Here's our ragged brats and wallets!

One and all cry out--Amen!

A fig for those by law protected!

Liberty's a glorious feast!

Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: A peculiar sort of whiskey.]

XV.

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his knowledge in medicine--so vain, that he advertised his merits, and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down, Dr. Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd: Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd, 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 h--ll 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, and bushes, kenn'd ay Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r The distant c.u.mnock hills out-owre: To count her horns with a' my pow'r, I set mysel; But whether she had three or four, I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill, And todlin down on Willie's mill, Setting my staff with a' my skill, To keep me sicker; Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, I took a bicker.

I there wi' something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-taed 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?"

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length, says I, "Friend, where 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, take care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman," 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 nae mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, Come, gies 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 kings-hood in a spleuchan!

He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan[6]

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 pierc'd mony a gallant heart; But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art And cursed skill, Has made them baith no worth a f----t, d.a.m.n'd haet they'll kill.

"'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, I threw a n.o.ble 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, And had sae fortified 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 tried a quarry O' hard whin rock.

"Ev'n them he canna get attended, Although their face he ne'er had kend it, Just sh---- in a kail-blade, and 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, 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, earths, and trees; True sal-marinum o' the seas; The farina of beans and pease, He has't in plenty; Aqua-fortis, what you please, He can content ye.

"Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, Urinus spiritus of capons; Or mite-horn shavings, filings, sc.r.a.pings, Distill'd _per se_; Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, And mony mae."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole[7] now,"

Quo' 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 need na yoke the plough, Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, Tak ye nae fear; They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh In twa-three year.

"Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, By loss o' blood or want of 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