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.
Death and Doctor Hornbook
A True Story
Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn’d: Ev’n ministers they hae 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 befell, Is 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 too tent aye To free the ditches; An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye 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 I 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 [Footnote 1: This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785.—R.B.] [Footnote 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 Hornbook i’ the clachan, Deil mak his king’s-hood in spleuchan! He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan4 And ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughin, An’ pouk my hips. “See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s 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, [Footnote 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.] [Footnote 4: Burchan’s Domestic Medicine.—R.B.] 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, Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it, Just—in a kail-blade, an’ sent 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 an’ whittles, Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles, A’ kind 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 an’ 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 mony mae.” “Waes me for Johnie Ged’s5 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 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. “A country 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 sent her aff to her lang hame, To hide it there. [Footnote 5: The grave-digger.—R.B.] “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 damn’d dirt: “But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot, Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t; I’ll nail the self-conceited sot, As dead’s a herrin; Neist time we meet, I’ll wad a groat, He gets his fairin!” But just as he began to tell, The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell Some wee short hour ayont the twal’, Which rais’d us baith: I took the way that pleas’d mysel’, And sae did Death.
Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard
April 1, 1785 While briers an’ woodbines budding green, An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en, An’ morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom, in an unknown frien’, I pray excuse. On Fasten—e’en we had a rockin, To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun and jokin, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin At sang about. There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife; It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast, A’ to the life. I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel, What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie’s wark?” They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t, An’ sae about him there I speir’t; Then a’ that kent him round declar’d He had ingine; That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t, It was sae fine: That, set him to a pint of ale, An’ either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel, Or witty catches— ’Tween Inverness an’ Teviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith, Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh an’ graith, Or die a cadger pownie’s death, At some dyke-back, A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith, To hear your crack. But, first an’ foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho’ rude an’ rough— Yet crooning to a body’s sel’ Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense; But just a rhymer like by chance, An’ hae to learning nae pretence; Yet, what the matter? Whene’er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say, “How can you e’er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?” But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye’re maybe wrang. What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools— Your Latin names for horns an’ stools? If honest Nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye’d better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers. A set o’ dull, conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o’ Greek! Gie me ae spark o’ nature’s fire, That’s a’ the learning I desire; Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, tho’ hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee, Or Fergusson’s the bauld an’ slee, Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it. Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few; Yet, if your catalogue be fu’, I’se no insist: But, gif ye want ae friend that’s true, I’m on your list. I winna blaw about mysel, As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends, an’ folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me; Tho’ I maun own, as mony still As far abuse me. There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses—Gude forgie me! For mony a plack they wheedle frae me At dance or fair; Maybe some ither thing they gie me, They weel can spare. But Mauchline Race, or Mauchline Fair, I should be proud to meet you there; We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care, If we forgather; An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin-ware Wi’ ane anither. The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter, An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water; Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better Before we part. Awa ye selfish, war’ly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace, Ev’n love an’ friendship should give place To catch—the—plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack. But ye whom social pleasure charms Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, “Each aid the others,” Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers! But, to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle, Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whistle, Your friend and servant.