Death and Doctor Hornbook(1/4)
death and doctor hornbook
a true story
some books are lies frae end to end,
and some great lies were never penn'd:
ev'n ministers they hae 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 befell,
is just as true's the deil's in hell
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 whiles, but yet too tent aye
to free the ditches;
an' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd eye
frae ghaists an' witches.
the rising moon began to glowre
the distant cumnock hills out-owre:
to count her horns, wi' a my pow'r,
i set mysel';
but whether she had three or four,
i cou'd na tell.
i was come round about the hill,
an' todlin down on willie's mill,
setting my staff wi' a' my skill,
to keep me sicker;
tho' leeward whiles, against my will,
i took a bicker.
i there wi' something did forgather,
that pat me in an eerie swither;
an' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
clear-dangling, hang;
a three-tae'd 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!”
i seem'd to make a kind o' stan'
but naething spak;
at length, says i, “friend! whare ye gaun?
will ye go back?”
it spak right howe,—“my name is death,
a true story
some books are lies frae end to end,
and some great lies were never penn'd:
ev'n ministers they hae 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 befell,
is just as true's the deil's in hell
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 whiles, but yet too tent aye
to free the ditches;
an' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd eye
frae ghaists an' witches.
the rising moon began to glowre
the distant cumnock hills out-owre:
to count her horns, wi' a my pow'r,
i set mysel';
but whether she had three or four,
i cou'd na tell.
i was come round about the hill,
an' todlin down on willie's mill,
setting my staff wi' a' my skill,
to keep me sicker;
tho' leeward whiles, against my will,
i took a bicker.
i there wi' something did forgather,
that pat me in an eerie swither;
an' awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
clear-dangling, hang;
a three-tae'd 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!”
i seem'd to make a kind o' stan'
but naething spak;
at length, says i, “friend! whare ye gaun?
will ye go back?”
it spak right howe,—“my name is death,
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