File:The entire works of Robert Burns; with an account of his life, and a criticism on his writings (1836) (14775506441).jpg

Identifier: entireworkso00burn (find matches)
Title: The entire works of Robert Burns; with an account of his life, and a criticism on his writings
Year: 1836 (1830s)
Authors: Burns, Robert, 1759-1796 Currie, James, 1756-1805, (from old catalog) ed
Subjects:
Publisher: London, A. Bell & co.
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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ang. Its stature seemd lang Scotch ells twa,The queerest shape that eer I saw, ,For lient a wame it had ava ; And then, its shanks,They were as thin, as sharp, an sma As cheeks o branks. « Guid e quo I; « Friend! hae ye been But naething spak:At length, says I, * Friend, where ye gaun,Will ye go back ? It spak right howe,— 6 My name is Death,But be na fleyd.—Quoth I, Guid faith,:e maybe come to stap my breath ;But tent me, billie ;I red ye wee! tak care o skailh, See theres a gully ! * Gutdman, quo he, put up your whittle,Im no desisnd to try its mettle ;But if I did, I wad be kittle To be misleard,I wad na mind it, no, that spittle Out owre my beard, 1 Weel, weel !* 6ays I, a bargaiiCome, gies your hand, an sae weWell ease our shanks an tak a sea Come gies your rThis while f ye hae been mony a At mony £ bei a house. Bui .bis that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befell, * This rencounter happened in seed-time,1785. f An epidemical fever was then raging inthat countrv.
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dps I ^L ffi BURNS. —POEMS. * Ayi aJ> au0 ^e» an shook bis head, • Its een a lang, lang time indeedSin I began to nick the thread, An choke the breath :Folk maun do something for their bread,An sae maun Deaih. Sas thousand years are near hand fled, Sin I was to the hutching bred, An mony a scheme in vains been laid, To stap or scar me ;Till ane Horabooks* taen up the trade, An faith hell waur me. « Ye ken Jock Hornbook i the Clachan,Deil mak his kings hood in a spleuchan !Hes grown sae weel acquaint wi Bachanf An ither chaps,The weans haud out their fingers laughin An pouk my hips. • See, heres a scythe, and theres a dart,They hae pierced mony a gallant heart :But Doctor Hornbook, wi his art And cursed skill,Has made them baith no worth a f—t, Damnd haet theyll kill. • Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,I threw a noble throw at ane ; Wi less, Im sure, Ive hundreds slain ; But deil-ma-care,It just played dirl on the bane, But did nae mair. Hornbook was by, wiready art,A

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