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"It spak right howe: 'My name is Death,
 But be na' fley'd.' Quoth I: 'Guid faith,
 Ye're may be come to stop my breath;
 But tent me, billie:
 I red ye weel, take care o' skaith,
 See, there's a gully!'
 
 [...]
 
 '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' so maun Death.
 
 'Sax thousand years are near-hand fled
 Sin' I was to the butching bred,
 An' monie 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 Jock Hornbook i' the clachan?
 Deil mak his king's-hood in a 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 a dart,
 They hae pierc'd monie a gallant heart;
 But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art
 An' cursed skill,
 Has made them baith no worth a fart,
 Damn'd haet they'll kill!
 [...]"
  -- Robert Burns (b. 1759-01-26, d. 1796-07-21), from "Death and Doctor Hornbook. A True Story.", 1785

[May everybody involved in covid-19 vaccinations soon piss off Death as much as Dr. Hornbook did. In the meantime ... it feels strange not to have a Burns Night gig somewhere, two years in a row. Really looking forward to when rehearsals and live performances can safely start up again, here.]