Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/67

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
21
But if I did, I wad be kittleTo be mislear'd, I wad na mind it, no that spittleOut-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 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' BuchanAn' ither chaps, The weans haud out their fingers laughinAnd 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 artAnd 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 fortify'd the part,
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