THE POEMS OF BURNS.
23
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear.
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
In twa-three year.
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 and pill.
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 and pill.
'An honest wabster to his trade,
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-bred,
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
But ne'er spak mair.
Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-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 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.
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.
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 pay'd for't;
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,
Wi' his damn'd dirt.
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,
An's weel pay'd 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 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!'
Tho' 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.
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.
