Sir Violino, with an air
That show'd a man of spunk,
Wish'd unison between the pair,
An' made the bottle clunk

To their health that night.

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That play'd a dame a shavie,
A sailor rak'd her fore and aft,

Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft,

Tho' limping wi' the spavie,

He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft,
And shor'd them Dainty Davie
O boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed,
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart she ever miss'd it.
He had nae wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He hated nought but-to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

AIR.

Tune-"For a' that, an' a' that.”

I am a bard of no regard

Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that: But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS.

For a' that, an' a' that,

An' twice as muckle's a' that;
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin',
I've wife eneugh for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank,
Castalia's burn, an' a' that;

But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that.

For a' that, &c.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,

Their humble slave, an' a' that;

But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love, an a' that:
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft,
They've ta'en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex!
I like the jads for a' that.

CHORUS.

For a' that, an' a' that,

An' twice as muckle's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They're welcome till't for a' that.

RECITATIVO.

So sung the bard-and Nansie's wa's
Shook with a thunder of applause,

Re-echo'd from each mouth:

They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds,

They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,
To quench their lowan drouth.
Then owre again, the jovial thrang,

The poet did request,

To loose his pack an' wale a sang,

A ballad o' the best;

He rising, rejoicing,

Between his twa Deborahs
Looks round him, an' found them
Impatient for the chorus.

AIR.

Tune-Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses."

SEE! the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS.

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

What is title ? what is treasure? 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 callets! 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.

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 was, 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 til 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 Cumnock 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' Buchan1
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,
Damn'd 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 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 nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry, But yet the bauld Apothecary,

Withstood the shock; I might as weel hae tried a quarry O' hard whin rock.

1 Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

"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, scrapings, Distill'd per se;

Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings,

And mony mae."

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's-Hole2 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 pleugh,
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

2 The grave-digger

"A countra 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 bonnie 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.

"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 d-mn'd 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': Niest 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.

XVI.

THE TWA HERDS:

OR,

THE HOLY TULZIE.

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns, "with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause."]

O a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast, That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, These five and twenty simmers past, O! dool to tell, Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle
And think it fine
The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle
Sin' I ha'e min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,
To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank,
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank,
He let them taste,
Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,-
O sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod,
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,
He smelt their ilka hole and road,
Baith out and in,
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale,
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,
And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa-O! do I live to see't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An' names, like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,
While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite,
Say neither's liein'!