Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/16

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The lad, for twa gude gimmer pets,
        Was Laird himsel.

A bonny lase, ye ken her name,
Some in-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 of Hornbook's way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay,
        An's weel paid for't:
Yet stops me of my lawfu' prey,
         Wi' his d-n'd dirt.

But hark! I'll tell you o' a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speaking 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 see did Death.