Poems and Songs of Robert Burns. Robert Burns

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       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's^5 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.