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

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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, 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' Buchan
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 fortify'd the part,