Burns talks to Death!! :)

A sparkling masterpiece  J  that I had never read before!    

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Death and Doctor Hornbook

A True Story

By Robert Burns

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,

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

Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith

See, there's a gully!"

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

I'm no designed to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd;

I wad na mind it, no that spittle

Out-owre my beard."

"Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't;

Come, gie's your hand, an' sae we're gree't;

We'll ease our shanks an tak a seat-

Come, gie's 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,

And faith! he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Hornbook i' the clachan,

Deil mak his king's-hood in spleuchan!

He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan

And ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin,

An' pouk my hips.

"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,

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 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.

"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.

"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.

Back to the basics :)

The stanza form’s commonly called a standard Habbie, after the subject of a lament written in it over 100 years before Burns.  Here’s Burns using it in a lament himself:

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Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher

By Robert Burns

Auld chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,

Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,

Nae joy her bonie buskit nest

Can yield ava,

Her darling bird that she lo'es best-

Willie's awa!

O Willie was a witty wight,

And had o' things an unco' sleight,

Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,

And trig an' braw:

But now they'll busk her like a fright, -

Willie's awa!

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd,

The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;

They durst nae mair than he allow'd,

That was a law:

We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd;

Willie's awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,

Frae colleges and boarding schools,

May sprout like simmer puddock-stools

In glen or shaw;

He wha could brush them down to mools-

Willie's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumer

May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;

He was a dictionar and grammar

Among them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer;

Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door

Philosophers and poets pour,

And toothy critics by the score,

In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core-

Willie's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,

Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;

Mackenzie, Stewart, such a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;

They a' maun meet some ither place,

Willie's awa!

Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken,

He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken

Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin,

By hoodie-craw;

Grieg's gien his heart an unco kickin,

Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,

And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;

Ilk self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum-

Willie's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,

And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,

While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,

Willie's awa!

May I be Slander's common speech;

A text for Infamy to preach;

And lastly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw;

When I forget thee, Willie Creech,

Tho' far awa!

May never wicked Fortune touzle him!

May never wicked men bamboozle him!

Until a pow as auld's Methusalem

He canty claw!

Then to the blessed new Jerusalem,

Fleet wing awa!

Proof you can write in the second person about anything you want :)

It’s late, but I didn’t want to skip a day after having skipped no days in so many moons  J

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Address To The Toothache

By Robert Burns

My curse upon your venom'd stang,

That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,

An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance,

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or argues freezes,

Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,

Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,

Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases-

Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle

I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,

While round the fire the giglets keckle,

To see me loup,

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup!

In a' the numerous human dools,

Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,

Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, -

Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools,

Thou bear'st the gree!

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,

Where a' the tones o' misery yell,

An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,

In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,

Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,

That gars the notes o' discord squeel,

Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore, a shoe-thick,

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

A townmond's toothache!

Since it's Sunday

By far the best Burns poem for a Sunday blog  J

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Address To The Deil

By Robert Burns

O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs

That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war

Milton

O Thou! whatever title suit thee-

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,

Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,

An' let poor damned bodies be;

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;

Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;

An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate, nor scaur.

Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,

For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;

Whiles, on the strong-wind'd tempest flyin,

Tirlin the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or where auld ruin'd castles grey

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my graunie summon,

To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman!

Aft'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,

Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,

Wi' you, mysel' I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' wavin' sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each brist'ld hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor "quaick, quaick,"

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistlin' wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,

Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,

They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,

Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,

Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain,

May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;

For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en

By witchin' skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane

As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse

On young guidmen, fond, keen an' crouse,

When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An' float the jinglin' icy boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies

Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:

The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies

Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip

In storms an' tempests raise you up,

Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,

Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brither ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard,

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,

An' all the soul of love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,

In shady bower;

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist rui'd a'.

D'ye mind that day when in a bizz

Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house an hal',

While scabs and botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw;

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,

A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin

To your black pit;

But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you yet.

But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Stil hae a stake:

I'm wae to think up' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

Food poetry!! :)

And here’s a very famous one  J

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Address To A Haggis

By Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!

Aboon them a' yet tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o'a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

Your pin was help to mend a mill

In time o'need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,

An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like ony ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin', rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:

Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckles as wither'd rash,

His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash;

His nieve a nit;

Thro' blody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread.

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,

Like taps o' trissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer

Gie her a haggis!