“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.

Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard

     April 1, 1785

     While briers an’ woodbines budding green,
     An’ paitricks scraichin loud at e’en,
     An’ morning poussie whiddin seen,
     Inspire my muse,
     This freedom, in an unknown frien’,
     I pray excuse.

     On Fasten—­e’en we had a rockin,
     To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;
     And there was muckle fun and jokin,
     Ye need na doubt;
     At length we had a hearty yokin
     At sang about.

     There was ae sang, amang the rest,
     Aboon them a’ it pleas’d me best,
     That some kind husband had addrest
     To some sweet wife;
     It thirl’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast,
     A’ to the life.

     I’ve scarce heard ought describ’d sae weel,
     What gen’rous, manly bosoms feel;
     Thought I “Can this be Pope, or Steele,
     Or Beattie’s wark?”
     They tauld me ’twas an odd kind chiel
     About Muirkirk.

     It pat me fidgin-fain to hear’t,
     An’ sae about him there I speir’t;
     Then a’ that kent him round declar’d
     He had ingine;
     That nane excell’d it, few cam near’t,
     It was sae fine: 

     That, set him to a pint of ale,
     An’ either douce or merry tale,
     Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel,
     Or witty catches—­
     ‘Tween Inverness an’ Teviotdale,
     He had few matches.