“See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s dart,
     They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;
     But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
     An’ cursed skill,
     Has made them baith no worth a f-t,
     Damn’d haet they’ll kill!

     “’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
     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,
     An’ had sae fortify’d the part,

[Footnote 3:  This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 4:  Burchan’s Domestic Medicine.—­R.B.]

     That when I looked to my dart,
     It was sae blunt,
     Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart
     Of a kail-runt.

     “I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
     I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
     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.