THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 17

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS 17

XV.

 

DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK.

 

A TRUE STORY.

 

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem,

was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as,

it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his

knowledge in medicine--so vain, that he advertised his merits, and

offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a

mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the

Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, "Sit down,

Dr. Hornbook." On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge

of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink,

fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston

Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and

matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

 

 

Some books are lies frae end to end,

And some great lies were never penn'd:

Ev'n ministers, they ha'e been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' scripture.

 

But this that I am gaun to tell,

Which lately on a night befel,

Is just as true's the Deil's in h--ll

Or Dublin-city;

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

 

The Clachan yill had made me canty,

I was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn'd ay

Frae ghaists an' witches.

 

The rising moon began to glow'r

The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:

To count her horns with a' my pow'r,

I set mysel;

But whether she had three or four,

I could na tell.

 

I was come round about the hill,

And todlin down on Willie's mill,

Setting my staff with a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;

Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,

I took a bicker.

 

I there wi' something did forgather,

That put me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-taed leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,

The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For fient a wame it had ava:

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

As cheeks o' branks.

 

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin,

When ither folk are busy sawin?"

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, "Friend, where ye gaun,

Will ye go back?"

 

It spak right howe,--"My name is Death,

But be na fley'd."--Quoth I, "Guid faith,

Ye're may be come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel, take care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!"

 

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle,

I'm no design'd to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd,

I wad nae 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 scar 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 kings-hood in a spleuchan!

He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan[6]

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 fortified the part,

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,

Although their face he ne'er had kend it,

Just sh---- in a kail-blade, and send 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 and whittles,

Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles,

A' kinds 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 and pease,

He has't in plenty;

Aqua-fortis, 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 Johnny Ged's-Hole[7] now,"

Quo' 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 need na yoke the plough,

Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,

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 an' pill.

 

"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 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.

 

"A bonnie 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.

 

"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 d--mn'd dirt:

 

"But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,

Though 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.

 

FOOTNOTES:

 

[Footnote 6: Buchan's Domestic Medicine.]

 

[Footnote 7: The grave-digger.]

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XVI.

 

THE TWA HERDS:

 

OR,

 

THE HOLY TULZIE.

 

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun,

and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of

the "Old Light," they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of

controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. "This poem," says Burns,

"with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a

roar of applause."]

 

 

O a' ye pious godly flocks,

Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,

About the dykes?

 

The twa best herds in a' the wast,

That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast,

These five and twenty simmers past,

O! dool to tell,

Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel.

 

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,

How could you raise so vile a bustle,

Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle

And think it fine:

The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twistle

Sin' I ha'e min'.

 

O, sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,

To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,

To be their guide.

 

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,

Sae hale and hearty every shank,

Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank,

He let them taste,

Frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank,--

O sic a feast!

 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod,

Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,

He smelt their ilka hole and road,

Baith out and in,

And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

And sell their skin.

 

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale,

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,

He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,

O'er a' the height,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,

At the first sight.

 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,

Or nobly fling the gospel club,

And New-Light herds could nicely drub,

Or pay their skin;

Could shake them o'er the burning dub,

Or heave them in.

 

Sic twa--O! do I live to see't,

Sic famous twa should disagreet,

An' names, like villain, hypocrite,

Ilk ither gi'en,

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite,

Say neither's liein'!

 

An' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,

There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul,

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld,

Till they agree.

 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset;

There's scarce a new herd that we get

But comes frae mang that cursed set

I winna name;

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet

In fiery flame.

 

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,

M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,

And that curs'd rascal call'd M'Quhae,

And baith the Shaws,

That aft ha'e made us black and blae,

Wi' vengefu' paws.

 

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief,

We thought ay death wad bring relief,

But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;

I meikle dread him.

 

And mony a ane that I could tell,

Wha fain would openly rebel,

Forbye turn-coats amang oursel,

There's Smith for ane,

I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,

An' that ye'll fin'.

 

O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,

Come, join your counsel and your skills

To cow the lairds,

And get the brutes the powers themsels

To choose their herds;

 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,

And Learning in a woody dance,

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,

That bites sae sair,

Be banish'd o'er the sea to France:

Let him bark there.

 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence,

M'Gill's close nervous excellence,

M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'Math,

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

XVII.

 

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

 

"And send the godly in a pet to pray."

 

POPE.

 

[Of this sarcastic and too daring poem many copies in manuscript were

circulated while the poet lived, but though not unknown or unfelt by

Currie, it continued unpublished till printed by Stewart with the

Jolly Beggars, in 1801. Holy Willie was a small farmer, leading elder

to Auld, a name well known to all lovers of Burns; austere in speech,

scrupulous in all outward observances, and, what is known by the name

of a "professing Christian." He experienced, however, a "sore fall;"

he permitted himself to be "filled fou," and in a moment when "self

got in" made free, it is said, with the money of the poor of the parish. His name was William Fisher.]