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La Teste's Select Poems
Tester, William Hay Leith
Published 1872
MY WEE CRIPPLE WEAN. Her leggie was broken whan her mither lay dyin', An' death took oor new-born bairnie awa' ; There was naething but poortith, an' sabbin' an' sighin' , For it seem'd as if Heaven had forsaken us a' Ere her soul sunward soar'd, that atowmond had flutter'd For freedom, to bask in Omnipotence' sheen ; My heart maistly rent when her last words were utter'd : "Willie, be good to oor wee cripple wean." Years hae roll'd on sin' the sod happ'd her mither ; Whiles we've been dowie, an' whiles we've been glad , An' whiles whan we're cantie an' coortin' thegither, A stranger micht tak's for a lass an' a lad. In the wierd wintry time, whan lang wark made me weary, Frae chanticleer's matin to vesper at e'en, The click o' her staff on the stanes made me cheery, Whan, smiling, she met me-my wee cripple wean. 'Twas a cauld cabin oors, for ' twas rottin' an' fa'in' ; Sometimes we had fire, an' sometimes we had nane ; An' we cudna help shiverin' when Boreas was blawin' The " beautiful snow" thro' the auld crackit pane. Tho' oor bits o' bed trappin' were no unco cosey, We cuddled the closer an' steekit oor een, An' I felt mair than happy whan, sleepin' sae rosy, She dream'd in my oxter-my wee cripple wean. She grew grave at her pray'rs, an' she learn'd her carritch, An' sang hymns o' heaven wi' an organ-like swell ; An' at nicht, whan the dear thing had suppit her parritch, I wash'd wi' a will her bit duddies mysel'. Oor gear bein' scant, unbefriended, unaided, I mendit her stockin's an' clootit her sheen ; An' blithe beat my breast as the broon curls I braided That kiss'd the broad broo o' my wee cripple wean, She's a little Minerva in wisdom, the kitty Ye'd wonder hoo words come sae glib to her tongue ; Her funny remarkin' , sae wise-like an' witty, Amuses the auld an' dumbfoonders the young. A Venus in beauty, as modest' a gowan, A seraph in mind, a Madonna in mien, Wi' a heartie sae tender, sae lovin', sae lowin', She's a' body's body-my wee cripple wean. The cluds that sae lang hae been hovering o'er us, Hope's balmiest breezes are driving away ; An' I'll live yet to sing ye a cheerier chorus While Tibbuck's the love an' the licht o' my lay. I dootna some day she'll astonish the warl', An' the warl' mayhap hail her Poetry's Queen, Wi' a ha' o' her ain, an' a garland o' laurel Be wreath'd roond the broo o' my wee cripple wean, DEAR ANNIE GRAY. FOGGYLOAN! Foggyloan! though thou'rt foggy to- night, Glendronach is pure, and the peat fire is bright. We're glorious an' happy ; what mair wad ye hae Than the sunshiny smiles o' my dear Annie Gray. Her mitherly way an' her coothie kind word Mak' the weary way-worn e'en as blythe as a bird. Gin I e'er wed a wife, then ' tis likely I may Be a happy guidman yet to dear Annie Gray. Losh me ! but its fine ; faith the thoucht o't amaist Drives a carl hale crazy-half crazy at best. I'll be laird o' her lan'-rich in corn an' strae, An' the ewes an' the coos o' my dear Annie Gray. I'll get fat, I'll get fair, I'll get rich, an' grow goodMayhap made an elder, an' then I'll be prood ; An' the lairds and the ladies will a' come the way To see El'er La an' his dear Annie Gray. Sweet Kathleen Mavourneen, I bid thee adieu ! I greet when I say it , for I ken thy heart's true ; An' ditto to thee, thou adored Lalla May, For I'll be guidman noo to dear Annie Gray. I'll hae naething to dae but ride oot in the car, Look aifter the gear, and sit snug in the bar ; An' big folk will speer, " Hoo's yer honour the day ?" I'll be somebody yet when I wed Annie Gray. Rob says that the schemes o' wee mice an' wee men Gang aften agley," an' there's truth in his strain. Whatofthat?though I'm baulked I'll still earnestly pray That a better than I yet may wed Annie Gray. Then rich be her fields and prolific her kye, Nor aught of unhappiness parent a sigh ; An' light sing the lark when her wee lambkins play In the howes, on the knowes, o' my dear Annie Gray. WAT YE WHA'S IN OOR TOON ? SUNG BY MR CUMMING AND CHORUS. WAT ye wha's in oor toon, The toon beside the sea ? A lassie cam to oor toon Wha sweetly smiles on me ; An' whan she smiles, my hairt loups licht, An' sae wad yours she smiles sae bricht. The starnie in the purple nicht Ne'er blink'd sae blythe as she. Then wat ye wha's in oor toon, In oor toon, in oor toon ? The lass that cam to oor toon Love's mirror'd in her e'e. We've happy lads in oor toon, The toon beside the sea ; O' a' the lads in oor toon The happiest lad is me. When Sally's waist my arms entwine, Like creeping ivy round the vine, When Sally's cheek is press'd to mine, An' smack for smack I gie. Then wat ye wha's in oor toon, [and]c . The bells shall ring in oor toon, The toon beside the sea ; A bride shall blush in oor toon, An' I'll the bridegroom be. With orange blossoms pure an' rare I'll wreath her dark luxuriant hair, An' we will prove the happiest pair E'er bent at shrine the knee. Then wat ye wha's in oor toon, [and]c. We've mony a gem in oor toon, The toon beside the sea ; But the brightest gem in oor toon Is Sally's hazel e'e. We've loving hearts and tender arms, Wi' faces radiant in their charms, But oh ! the ane that fondly warms This loving heart is she. Then wat ye wha's in oor toon, [and]c. VICTORIA'S SPINNIN' WHEEL. TO HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY THE QUEEN. NAE laureat grand am I, my Queen, An' rude my rustic lyre, Yet in my verse, sometimes, are seen Sparks o' poetic fire. Thy royal favour an' regard I crave not, but I feel "Tis richt a Deeside-born bard Should sing yer spinnin' wheel. Thy queenly foot hath trodden oft, At mornin' , noon, an' night, The cot, the heath-roofed Belnacroft, Where I first saw the light. This mak's me, then, in heart a girl A heart that lo'es thee weel ; An' blythe I'd be to hear ye birl Yer bonnie spinnin' wheel. May it, as season's onward roll, A powerful solace prove ; Its music calm thy widowed soul, An' waft its thoughts above, Till, soaring on a seraph's wing Before His throne thou kneel ! May angels holy anthems sing Around thy spinnin' wheel ! Fly, Fancy ! fly to courtly scenes Of regal pomp an' din, An' tell the nations' guady queens Britannia's Queen can spin. She loves the worset hamespun greys That fill the furlin' reel That hand a nation's sceptre sways Can birl a spinnin' wheel. Loved by a people good an' brave, May peace for ever smile Round thee an' thine, while ocean's wave Shall lave our own loved isle. The Scottish hearts for you wad bleed Sae loyal, true, an' leal There's nae a wife frae Skye to Tweed But loves yer spinnin' wheel. As for the Prince, I breathe this prayer A Prince in soul and mien Lang may he live thy worthy heir, And thou be still the Queen. An' when at last ye've spun life's warp, An' found a narrow biel, I pray, oh, may an angel's harp Replace yer spinnin' wheel ! A crown of glory, pure from Him, A diadem, whose rays Time nor eternity can dim The brilliance of its blaze. An' re-united to a Prince A soul that loved ye weel An' may thy people ages hence Adore yer spinnin' wheel ! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN ! THE MITHER'S LAMENT. O ! sadly soun's the clickin' o' the clock agin the wa' ; Hark ! the auld toon bell is strikin'-'tis the weary hour o❜ twa ; For the clods are dowfin' doo'some on her little coffin lid, An' rack'd wi' pain my bosom whaur her face sae aften hid ; She has left me sad and lonely noo-nor love nor skill could save My sweet, my pet, my only, too, sleeps in her newmade grave. Ye'd hae lov'd her had ye seen her in her wildest infant glee, A bonnier nor a keener never danced on mither's knee ; Aye kissin' , ruggin', rockin', an' twinin' roun' my neck Jumpin', laughin', croakin'-Oh ! my heart ! my heart will break ! Why didst thou, Death, my bairnie, sae unpityin' , ruthless crave? Short was thy life's wee journey frae thy cradle to thy grave ! Her locks sae saft and silky , too, had just begun to twine Around her neck o' milky hue-fair Seraph-white as thine ; A cheek o' pinky lightness, wi' an alabaster broo ; An' e'e that vied in brightness wi' the heaven's ethereal blue, An' smirkin' like yon starnie in the lift aboon the lave. O! ye never saw a bairnie like my beauty o' the grave. Her father bids me keep not hourly weepin' , for ' tis vain ; But when he bids me weep not, I can see him dicht his ain ; An' the heavin's o' his bosom tell o' pangs that inward dwell, For he lov'd his blue-e'ed blossom neist the love he bears mysel' . O sad's the tear o' sorrow frae the manly an' the brave ; 'Tis thy father, little Flora, draps an offering on thy grave. I thocht my heart wad sunder when I saw her in her shroud, As they strew'd some rosebuds round her, an' we sabbit sair an' loud ; An my breast was like to wither as I kissed her pallid brow, O ! I'll never love anither wi' sic holy ardent lowe. Cease, cease, my e'en, thy weepin' , for He's ta'en but what he gave ; An' soon we'll a' be sleepin' like my wee thing in the grave. I will miss thy footstep roamin' but an' ben wi' hummin' croon ; I will miss thee in the gloamin' , whan I smooth'd thy cradle doon ; I will miss thy waukin' up, too, wi' thy winnin' smile sae bricht ; I will doubly miss thy lip, too, in the mirky hour o' nicht ; I will miss thee on the morrow, thrummin' ower thy matin stave : I will miss thee ever, Flora, till we meet beyond the grave. THE PETITION OF " ROYAL JOCK" TO THE INSPECTOR OF ROADS. MAY'T please yer Honour, I, George Hossack's " Jock," That lately got my foreleg maistly broke, Send greetin' unto thee, this sma' petition, Afore I'm fairly knock'd to crockieneeshin. I've run sax years, or five, at ony rate, But never kent the roads in sic a state ; Sae full o' howes, an' knowes, an' muckle stanes, That brak my graith, an' shatter a' my banes. Losh, man ! it's sair upon oor royal gig "Tween Rannes Bog and Holy Willie's Brig, For ilka rumble, see-saw, dowd, an' whack, Gar axle bend, an' a' the springs cry crack, The shafts hae broke my rib banes a'thegither, I'm nae sooner oot ae hole than in anither. The body's showdin' , when I trot full speed, Has showdit George ower aften, heels ower head. This state o' things, yer Honour, maun be mendit, Or then my royal race will soon be endit. To rin twice thirteen miles without a restin', Upon a road like this, is oot the question ; Sweatin' wi' twa-three hunner- weicht o' mail I wish ye had a twalmonth o't yersel, An' by experience ye wad ken in course What ' tis to be a royal mail-gig horse. The Buckie cadgers, in the same condition, Teuch hides an' banes, join me in this petition, An' hope yer Honour will sen' oot yer lads, Wi' barrows, craw-bars, shovels, picks, an' spauds, An' metal, roll, an' level- d'ye see? An' mak the turnpike what it ought to be. The pair Jeemes Ledingham diurnal drives, Ruggin' thro' ruts, hae ruggit oot their lives They ance were mettle, an' as fat's the laird's ! Hae pity man, altho' they're but a Caird's. His passengers wad rather rin on foot Than that the ruts sud rumble their insides oot. Ye're maybe scarce o' tools, an' maybe gear : The Gover❜ment will supply you, dinna fear ; The nation's rich. A boddach-an' it true is - Sax thoosand' grabb'd for bosoming a Louis. But treatna wi' contempt my royal summons, Or then I'll send it to the Hoose o' Commons That generous, liberal lot, for whom, I say, The brute as weel's the body's bound to pray. THE " PALACE" O' THE LEAL. ΤΟ "BRITHER JIM." WEEL, I ha'e worn ower, Jim, Whar cloods can never lower, Jim— To Peter's blessed bower, Jim, The Palace o' the Leal. We've nocht like misery here, Jim, But lots o' beef an' beer, Jim ; We've nae back-rents to fear, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. We rest an' rise in peace, Jim, Nae lawyers, nor police, Jim, Shall daur approach to fleece, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. We're a' as blythe as birds, Jim, An' fustlin' sangs, like herds, Jim ; As plump, as roond as girds, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Oor bonnie bairns are fine, Jim, On pies an' puddins dine, Jim, An' singin' Auld Langsyne, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. I write them psalms an' hymns, Jim, They sing as sweet as " Sims," Jim ; There's nae dull darkness dims, Jim, The Palace o' the Leal. They ocht to praise the Lord, Jim, Who doth sic bliss afford, Jim, Payin' neither bed nor board, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Ye'll find the poet trade, Jim, Will never mak' their bread, Jim ; Their baps will a' be paid, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Their mithers-bless their hairts, Jim ! Wha witch'd us wi' their airts, Jim, Are coothie at the cairts, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Ye'll no be biddin' grind, Jim, Nor face the bitin' wind, Jim ; A cosie newk ye'll find, Jim , I' the Palace o' the Leal. The toon's corpse deep in debt, Jim, Ye'll scarcely brochan get, Jim ; But here we live in state, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Game-laws are rigorous, true, Jim, Foof-pheasant soup, an' stew, Jim, We get for naething, noo, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. I've got a vlossypide, Jim, I'll teach ye hoo to ride, Jim, Gin ye wad come an' bide, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Bung by yer birlin' wheel, Jim, Come nor'ward, an' get weel, Jim ; Ye'll grow as swak's an eel, Jim, I' the Palace o' the Leal. Think ower't, an' then come ower, Jim, Whaur cloods can never lower, Jim, To Peter's blessed bower, Jim, The Palace o' the Leal. P.S.-A freen' frae auld Portsoy, Jim, Oor Jock-a noble boy, Jim,- Will greet ye-ay, wi' joy, Jim. I' the Palace o' the Leal. EPITAPH ON EARL " THANE.” HERE rest in peace the ashes o' a " Thane," Who lov'd still waters very much indeed ; A sort o' genuis, honest to the bane, An' weel deservin' o' a simple screed. As prince o' barbers, Charlie took the lead, Cud haud a razor, tho' blin' - barrel-foo ; He ne'er was kent a customer to bleed Whan scrapin' gentlemen like me an' you ; Puir chiel, oor shavin' nobs will miss him sadly noo. He left nae widow to lament his death— As far as I'm aware had issue nane ; But that's nae proof but what he micht had baith, But gin ye search the " session buik," ye'll ken. He had domestic pets-some nine or ten Rare singin' birds-whilk, whan the " will" was read, Were left to me-soap box an' grindin' stane, Wi' a his ither general stock-in - trade : I'm barber, noo, mysel', an' shavin' in his stead. He didna like to bother people, sae He slipt awa' gey canny ae cauld nicht ; What tho' his corpse be sax feet deep in clay, His happy spirit-happy as ' twis licht— Fluttered towards the " Milky Way”—an' very richt To hum sweet anthems " 'mong the little stars ; " Disgustit wi' the warl-an' weel it micht Its woes an' wants, its wickedness an' wars I wish I were like him, some million miles yont Mars. SIN' MAGGIE SMILES NAE MAIR ON ME. 'Tis stormy oot, ' tis stormy in, An' hearts are a' growing cauld as lead ; There's nocht but saucy looks an' sin Whaur love was wont to lie an' bleed : I canna fathom hoo't can be Why Maggie smiles nae mair on me. I thocht I was a smairt bit brick I thocht that Maggie thocht the same; But, faith she gart me cut my stick"- An' wasna that a wicked shame ? An' noo I'm daily on the spree Sin' Maggie smiles nae mair on me. She says I'm but a gaugrene gowk— A perfect mule-I dinna ken We see the fauts o' ither fowk ; But, hang me, if we see oor ain ; - I'll gang an' droon me in the sea Sin' Maggie smiles nae mair on me. She made the hoose a happy hame For months, to me, a' life an' joy ;— 'Tis a' ower noo-the mair's the shame Och, hon! puir Willie-an' Portsoy ; For Corner Rob is daft wi' glee Sin' Maggie smiles nae mair on me. Delighted, in his sleeve laughs Rob, An' thinks he's won the limmer's love; But I've the patience o' auld Job, Or then I'd worry Rob, by Jove ; — Tho' twice my weicht, I'd blaik his e'e, Sin Maggie smiles nae mair on me. But haud yer wisht, my worthy bricks ; Fortune may change-that fickle dame- An' I'll gie Robber Rob his licks, An' Maggie thank me for the same ; I'll gie ye a' a fortnicht's spree Whan Maggie smiles again on me. THE HORRORS. WERE ye ever in the horrors ? 'Tis a pleasant state indeed ! Especially on Sunday Whan the kirk bell deaves yer head ; Whan yer cranium's in a muddle, An' ye canna stan' nor sit, An' yer prayin' for a donal The thing ye canna get. Ha ha ha ! he he ! he! Whan ye fancy ilka sinner Glower daggers as they pass, An' the pavement ye are trampin' Is o' brittle gear like glass. The deil himsel' ahin ye, The streets gaun furlin' roun' ; An' ye fancy a' the chumleys Are fa'in' to crack yer croon. Ha ha ha ! he he! he! It's unco pleasant dreamin' Ye're a bein' gor'd by bulls, Or in the kirkyard howkin' Coffins up, an' dead folks skulls ; Or in some haunted castle, An' fechtin' wi' a ghost ; Or doon a coal-pit tumblin' , Baith soul and body lost. Ha ha ha! he he! he ! Or in the saut sea droonin', Or bein' by Calcraft hung ; Or torn wi' dogs an' tigers, Or wi' a serpent stung. Gin ye're in that condition, Tho' ye mauna like the news, Faith, my frien' , ye're fairly listit In the corps they ca' the Blues. Ha ha ha! he he! he! Like me, man, be teetotal, Nor stronger drink than tea ; Ye'll grow fat, an' fair, an' rosy, An' a happy brick like me. I aince could swallow brandy, But I dinna taste it noo ; An' I hate the smell o' fusky, Don't ye think, my dear, I do. Ha ha ha ! he ! he ! he! Tho' the Christmas time be coming, King Alcohol despise ; Sing a psalm, an' read the Proverbs, An' learn to be wiseLike myself-yer humble servan'- Wha' has turn'd ower a leaf ; A shinin' licht an' burnin' , Tho' o' sinners aince the chief. THE PANNANICH WELLS. YE may ease a bit toothache by pullin' it oot (It's no very painfu' , but try't till ye see) , Yer thrapple, by rowin't in a het flannen cloot, An' a sair head's been cur'd wi' a cogie o' tea ; An' Holloway's ointment, all over the globe, Effectively cures nature's numberless ails, Especially those that afflicket poor Job: But naething cures love like the Pannanich Wells. To lumbago haud vitril (ye'll brawly endur't), For spasms gulph quarts o' Cardow's usquebae, The gout (my disease) may be easily cur'd By stickin' to stirr- a- boot three times a-day. Consumption ere lang will be reckon'd a naething, While there's pureCullen Liver, an' pure Ingramales ; Oor quacks noo- a-days can cure a'thing but aething, For naething cures love like the Pannanich Wells. "Tis a terrible malady, love, whan it lowes As high as an hundred-an' - sixty degrees, Sic a heat in a sinner, sirs, canna be mowse (I aince kent a chap set himsel' in a bleeze). When Julia an' I fell in love, what a lowe ! There's naebody kens o't sae weel as oorsels ; We'd baith, I assure you, been cinders ere now, Had we nae ta'en a toor to the Pannanich Wells. When dear little Tugtail, the tailor, became Sic a martyr to Cupid-to lily an' rose His physog, very fine, ' pon my word, seem'd a flame : Ye'd hae lichtit yer pipe on the tip o' his nose. Tug tramp'd up Deeside an' drunk Pannanich water, Now the dear little knight is as richt as the mails, Ilka Saturday nicht finds him blythe on the batter ; There's naething cures love like the Pannanich Wells. Says Julia to me, " ye may go where ye please," An' she crack'd in my face her white fingers in joy, " The water of Pannanich's cur'd my disease, And I don't care a snuff for ye now, my old boy." Then, " darling Jemima," don't be a fool, When you feel that your heart in rotundity swells ; If ye wish to live happy, live long, and live cool, Try a month, if ye please, at the Pannanich Wells. SYLVAN'S AWA'. "ΤΟ BALLYMENA." OCH HON ! Ballymena ! there ne'er was a simpler Nor greater nonsensical donkey than I, In spite o' my neck they hae made me a "Templar," An' I daurna drink naething but swats when I'm dry. Ye say a brave heart beats beneath my old vestment Very true, but ye kenna, ' tis broken in twaY e'll find in D. Commons my last Will and Test'ment— Haein' naething to live for sin Sylvan's awa'. My ae e'e is swell'd, for this fortnicht I've gritt'n, My ither is shut-(as recordit in print), My heart-what is left o't-has sairly been smitt'n Wi' a daub frae a dart, that is still stickin' in't; "Tis confoondedly painfu' , and inwardly bleedin', The doctor, puir body, canna doctor't at a' , I stan' on death's door-step unheed't, unheedin' , Despairin' and hopeless sin' Sylvan's awa'. I kenna what tempit the lassie to hookit, For I fervently pray'd we micht never mair pairt, We baith were as happy's twa doos in a doockit, Ere this arrow cam-a-whiz-mutilatin' my hairt. I aye was as mim an' as mild as a litlen'- Ae smack at a time, or at maist only twa, An' I bounc'd thro' the biggin', as sportive's a kitlin'- But dool has owerta'en me sin' Sylvan's awa'. Oh ! Sylvan ! sweet Sylvan, our many embraces Ye'll fondly remember when far ' yont the Tweed, Wi' my cheek on yer shoother, an' my nose ' mang yer tresses, Ye made my ben parlour quite Sylvan indeed. 'Twas the hame o' Elysium then truly, but waes me, "Tis noo but a dungeon-damp, gloomy, and raw ; This dismal despondin' in solitude slays me, The change is rank murder sin' Sylvan's awa' . There's nae coothy han' noo to butter my bannocks, Nor fish oot the fattest tit-bits whan I dine ; I've pleasure wi' nane, save wi' " Oor Jock" in Sannick's, Ower a tumbler o' swats-for I dar'nt drink wine. Mysarks want the buttons-my stockin's want mendin' , My boots never glisten wi' Warren at a' , I'm gawn like a scapegrace-' tis truly hairt-rendin', There's naebody cares noo sin' Sylvan's awa' . I wish I were droon'd in a hogshead o' claret, Or plung❜d, cranium foremost, in Lethe's deep stream, For I'll never get on thro' this warl by merit ; And promotion by purchase is nocht but a dream. I gaed to the meetin' last Sunday, fond hopin' Religion's soul- soothin' micht cure me—but na, I'm a thoosan' times waur, mairchin' , mumlin, an' mopin' , An' can only articulate-" Sylvan's awa'." Miss Pop-goes-the-weasel, sae pure an' sae pious, Says she unto me the other day-" Willawins ! Yer a pitifu' picture - 'tis fearfu' - 'tis byus A skeleton gawn to the grave on its pins." Says I, dear Miss Pop, I am bad wi' digestion, 'Twas a lee, but I wanted to shut up her jaw, I kent that she wish'd me to pop her the question, I'll pop into my grave first sin' Sylvan's awa'. I thocht upon suicide, sae to the bed-post, Greetin' an' gruntin' , I tied a bit tow ; As Iloup'd aff my standin's, when snap gaed the said post , An' ben cam my landlady-lor' sic a row, She rag'd an' she rumbl't, as I lay maistly chokit, Her nieve nearly split my prood nasal in twa, "This nicht, Sir," says she, " in Ladybrig ye'll be lockit," But a' I cud answer was - Sylvan's awa. I hae read- haven't you ? that the spring o' affection Ower aft proves to mortals a fountain of woe, The mair's the shame till't, for this dreadfu' dejection Is enough to drive ane to the regions below. Nae doot, Ballymena, for us ' twad been better We ne'er had embrac'd ane anither at a' , But foof, never mind, we can meet in a letter, An' lo'e a' the same tho' sweet Sylvan's awa'. " WILL YE NAE COME BACK AGAIN ?" TO EMMA, LONDON. WHAT! Emma, wilt thou bid farewell Without a sigh, without a tear, To such a sunny, scented vale, To scenes sae charming, scenes sae dear ! Sweet Emma, rosebud of the glen, "Will ye nae come again ?" " Will ye nae come back again,” When Autumn's gold gilds lake an' lea ? Gin " ye'll nae come back again," Then, Emma, bid me come to thee. Think'st thou, sweet bud, I could forget The hours thy happy voice beguil❜d ! I feel thine arm in mine e'en yet, And see the smiles your bright eyes smil'd ; And oft my soul has hum'd since then, "Will ye nae come back again ?" "Will ye nae come back again," When Autumn's gold gilds lake and lea ? Gin " ye'll nae come back again," Then, Emma, bid me come to thee. Rememberest thou the genial day, By ivied Abbey and the Mill, We clamber'd up the Heldon brae To heather-bell'd Monaughty's hill ! We were so joyous, sweet one, then ; "Will ye nae come back again !" "Will ye nae come back again," To heath-clad hill and gowan❜d lea? Gin " ye'll nae come back again," Then, Emma, bid me come to thee. Were I a Zephyr-balmy, light Thy home in Regent's Park I'd seek, And flutt'ring, ' mid thy curls so bright, Unconscious kiss thy pinky cheek ;— With perfumes laden from the glen Would woo thee, Emma, back again. " Will ye nae come back again," While minstrels charm on every tree ? Gin " ye'll nae come back again," Then, Emma, bid me come to thee. JEANIE, THE FLOWER O' SPEYSIDE. KEN ye the white Ash, whaur wull doos are cooin', Wherethe roe and the roebuck their rambles pursue ? Ken ye the gardens, where rosebuds are wooin', Ere they close their pink petals, the delectable dew ? Ken ye the Duchess' Tree, where in its lightness, The thrush thrills a vesper, re- echoing wide ? In that Eden of beauty and bliss, in her brightness Dwells Jeanie, sweet Jeanie, the Flower o' Speyside. Ken ye the village enbosom'd in weld wood, The burn bubbling by in its low summer swell, Belov'd by the grey head, and sacred to childhood, Where pink cheek'd Pomona delighteth to dwell? Ken ye the Red Rock which stems the deep waters, Rolling mightily on to oppose Ocean's tide ? Then ye ken where the fairest of Fochabers' daughters Dwells-Jeanie, sweet Jeanie, the Flower o' Speyside. Fair, tho' the morning be, Jeanie is fairer ; Bright tho' the iris be, Jeanie's more bright ; Rare tho' the flowers be, Jeanie's still rarer ; Light tho' the zephyr be, Jeanie's more light ; Sweet as the honeysuckle, rich in its odour ; Pure as the blossoms that blazon a bride With all that is beautiful, who could not laud her, Jeanie, sweet Jeanie, the Flower o' Speyside ? "Star of the evening," resplendently beaming, While Jeanie is slumbering, oh ! smile on her now: Moonbeams so beautiful, wantonly streaming, Play ' mid the tresses that shadow her brow. Dream away, seraph one ; dreaming or waking May angels for ever around thee abide ; And may thy young heart never know love's forsaking, Nor aught blight thy beauty, thou Flower o' Speyside. "PHILIP'S WHITEHEAD"-INVERURY BREWERY. GAE awa wi' yer Bass an' yer Alsopp's wish-wash ; We - the Dons o' the Don - ken they're naething but trash ; They may gull the grandees, but we'll drink, boys, instead, A half-dizen magnums o' " Philip's Whitehead." They may blaw aboot Guiness's famed tripple X - Patronised by the Fenians, freebooters, and rakes ; But the Dons, ever loyal, prefer in its stead A fine, foamin' tankard o' " Philip's Whitehead.” Folk yelp, " There is naething like pure Edinburgh ; " Gin they're foo wi't the nicht, they're at death's door to- morrow, An' they'll ponder ower poison, hemp, pooder, an' blade ; But we've nae soor reflections ower " Philip's Whitehead." Comin' ower frae Port Elphinstone, crossin' the brig ; I felt sae ethereal, an' footit a jig ; Up went the blue bonnet, an' flaff gaed the plaid ; Faith, there's something like life, lads, in " Philip's Whitehead." An' M. (God forgie ' m for snivellin' sic buff) Says he, " That La Testy writes naething but stuff ; " But I wasna vex'd, for his nose, being sae red, Proclaim'd him a patron o’ “ Philip's Whitehead." Lang thrive Inverurie, and bless'd be each home, An' lang may ye cherish the memory o' Thom; Gin I'd been yer lord, on my birthday I'd paid For a half-hunner hogsheads o' " Philip's Whitehead." But my lord is a preacher, an I'm but a poet ; 'Tis the brass makes the man, not the brains, as ye know it ; Nae maitter, we are what we are, an' were gled We can aye pay a pinty o' " Philip's Whitehead." Gin it please ye, my Sovereign (the idea comes lucky), Be advised, whan yer pickin' the wing o' a chuckie, Gin ye wish to enjoy't wi' a zest, as it's said, Gar John draw a pinty o' " Philip's Whitehead," God save ye ! I feel, for the last twa three days, I cud scribble ye hunners an' thoosans o' lays ; 'Tis nae trouble writin' , for my Muse is sae gled When the Bard's ower a pinty o' " Philip's Whitehead.” P.S.-Dinna bother yer brains aboot doctors an' drugs, Though yer shiverin' wi' ague frae the queets to the lugs ; Gin ye tak' a bit cholic, gar wife, wean, or maid, Heat a half-dizen pinties o' " Philip's Whitehead.” THE HAIRST RIG . "HEY the bonny! how the bonny !" Hey the halesome hairst rig ! They little ken, yer pompous men, The pleasures o' the hairst rig. A fop turn'd up his nose in scorn At me because I'm rakin' corn The greatest bard that e'er was born Has rakit on the hairst rig. The independent man fu' weel, May sup wi' pride his parritch meal ; He needna borrow, beg, nor steal, As lang's he has the hairst rig. "Hey the bonny ! how the bonny !" Hey the halesome hairst rig ! They're Number One, in labour's van, The folk that face the hairst rig. Frae dawning grey to evening tide Yok'd in my rake, I view wi' pride The weel- sharped, glitterin' scythe blades glide Across the gowden hairst rig. King John maun fa' beneath the stroke O' brawny Donald, Jeems, an' Jock, Wha, Moses- like, micht split a rock These stalwarts o' the hairst rig. "Hey the bonny ! how the bonny !" Hey the halesome hairst rig ! Nae care nor fear need steer us here, As lang's we're on the hairst rig. Tho' broos wi' perspiration drap, The pleasure o' a forenoon nap In some blue e'ed Ruthura's lap Is soothin' on the hairst rig. While Maggie smiles, an' Jeanie sings, An Sauny's laugh thro' Calcot rings, The time flies by " on angel's wings," Oot ower the yellow hairst rig. "Hey the bonny ! how the bonny ! Hey the halesome hairst rig ! Wi' Geordie's crack, an' John to back, 'Tis pleasant wark the hairst rig. Tho' sometimes " wha daur meddle wi' me” Is apt to prick soft hands a wee, I'm wae to see't cut doon to dee Upon the weel-mown hairst rig. Shamrocks may wither, roses fade, The thistle, with its proud-burr'd head, Can prick its foes as well, tho' dead, That waved upon the hairst rig. "Hey the bonny ! howthe bonny !" Hey the halesome hairst rig ! Lang, Scotia, rear thine emblem dear, The thistle on the hairst rig ! Gie puppies silken petticoats, The hoarding wretch his hoarded notes ; Gie Templars, on the sly, their pots, But gie to me the hairst rig : The glowing eve, the radiant morn, Heaven's inspiration, inward born ; The minstrel's matin from the thorn, That wins me to the hairst rig. "Hey the bonny ! how the bonny !" Hey the halesome hairst rig ! God speed the ploo, an' those that noo Toil haply on the hairst rig. Yer sluggard scamps, that winna work, What in odd neuks an' corners lurk, Deserve the final o' a " Burke," Ower fear'd to face the hairst rig. But ye wha imitate the ant, Fear not, brave hearts, ye'll never want ; Waive, fools ! that cursed pride an' cant, An' try the glorious hairst rig. "Hey the bonny ! how the bonny !" ` Hey the halesome hairst rig ! Smile, seraphs, smile on those that toil Upon ilk Scottish hairst rig. THE AULD " LEMON TREE,” HUNTLY. I hae sookit green figs on the Gironde that grew, Rich melons, an' lemons, an' oranges too, And grapes by the pailfu'-an' sweet was the breeBut Glendronach's far sweeter, in the auld " Lemon Tree. " I've been in gran' Inns-Temp'rance Hotels an' a'— Frae the Ness o' her nainsel, amaist to the Pau, But a coothier cabin to Dauvit an' me, Is nae to be found, than the auld " Lemon Tree." There are lan'lords as canker'd as Sautan himsel', That will grudge ye a skyte, or a tumbler o' ale, But it's quite the reverse-aye sae social an' free Wi' kind, honest Jeemes, o' the auld " Lemon Tree." For Jamie's aye lauchin' , an' ready for fun, The smirk o' his e'e is a ray frae the sun ; Gin ye feel something dowie, faith ye'll soon be in glee, In the presence o' Jeemes, in the auld " Lemon Tree.” On market days, bless ye, his hoose never teems, There's nane ' mang the auld " Aucht-an'-Forty" like Jeemes, For the fairmers maun dinner, maun toddy, an' tea Wi' Jamie, mine host o' the auld " Lemon Tree." Last Wednesday market, an' Feersday baith, Troth Jeemes an' the Smith were forfochten to death, Stowin' awa' noby horses-some fifty- an-three, For a'body comes to the auld " Lemon Tree." Gin ye e'er wish to meet wi' a hostess that's kind, Come, like me, to Strathbogie, an' ane ye will find, When ye sit ower a drap, or a cogie o' tea, In her dear cosie bar o' the auld " Lemon Tree." Ye'll a' be made welcome ; an' Maggie, the limmer, Will be pleas'd to attend ye-aye smilin' like simmer ; But tak' care that her smile disna burn-d'ye see? A hole in yer heart, in the auld " Lemon Tree." Faith, Dauvit an' me here, hae liv'd like my lord, On the best that Glendronach an' Strathbogie afford , An' we're prood we can pledge noo, in three times an' three, Oor host, honest Jeemes, o' the auld " Lemon Tree." Success to the " Lemon," an' we pray that its juice May refresh the way-worn that come into the hoose ; May the host an' the hostess, at least live to see A hunner years each in the auld " Lemon Tree." KIND AUNTY JANE, RAFFORD. DoD dwine't - I hae thocht for this mony a lang That kind hearts were a' oot o' date, but I'm wrang; There are plenty in Rafford-but especially ane And that's-if ye please, sirs-oor kind Aunty Jane. I boastit awa' doon the road, for ye see I've a cauld in my kist, an' I'm maist like to dee ; But the host fairly vanished as soon's I gaed ben To the muckle peat-fire o' oor kind Aunty Jane. We crack'd like pen-guns, till the kettle sang " birr,” 'Boon a fire that was gleamin' in truffs, cowes, an' fir, An' I sat there, fine pleas'd, ower the wing o' a hen, An' a' the et cæteras wi' kind Aunty Jane. "Tis pleasant to sing o' the kind an' the good, It gars my hairt loup in my breast as it should ; An' whaur could I find sirs, a mair blessed strain Than to sing o' the good an' the kind Aunty Jane. I'll pray for her weelfare-I've learn'd to pray Since the minister bless'd me in Buckie yon day ; Ye'll think I'm leein' but yer sairly mista❜en, For a'thing will thrive noo wi' kind Aunty Jane. Her bees will mak' honey, her coos will increase, Her kail winna canker, her ingans nor pease, Nor frost blight her taties, nor mildew her grain, For a'thing will prosper wi' kind Aunty Jane. Gin ye want to be treated wi' aucht like respeck, Gin ye want a bit bed, a drap dram, or a steak, Tak' a toor doon thro' Rafford, as I did, an' then Ca' up to the Bawhill, and ye'll see Aunty Jane. JAMIE'S AWA'. LET lawyers dee whane'er they choose, A fair- strae death, or in the Blues ! That's nae hairt- breakin', startlin' news To me-but ah ! Thous't somethin' to bewail, my muse Jamie's awa'. Och, hon ! that death sae soon had nippit Ane o' the best that ever grippit A leather rein, an' four nags whippit— I feel ower a' Like ane wha's had some member clippit— Jamie's awa'. There's mony a croose commercial carle Will miss him on the Captain's " Earl ;" He ne'er was kent to sulk or snarl Wi' great or sma’— His marrow's left na i' the warl Jamie's awa'. But yesterday - I think I see The merry twinkle o' his e'e Or heard some joke he ga'e wi' glee Kind hairt ! but, ah ! This mornin' mony mourn like me Jamie's awa'. His hairt was in the proper place ; As soon's ye saw his honest face Ye read his mind-a mind o' grace, Pleasant as thaw Whan Spring gi'es auld King Frost the chase — Jamie's awa'. The Captain sadly may deplore him ; His very stud will nicker for him ; My frien' , oor Jock, wha did adore him, Will sip-na ! na ! Nae mair his Friday's foreneen jorum Jamie's awa'. Mourn, Morrison, an' Oliphant, Yer van looks wierd- like noo, I grant, Ye've felt an unco irksome want This month or twa; Banff bodies, too, wi' grief may gaunt Jamie's awa' . They'll miss him sadly ' bout the Port My auld an' favourite Spring resort ; For Jeemes was sic a social sort, Obleegin' a' , Nor wad he tak' a fardin' for't Jamie's awa'. There's nane will miss him mair, I fear, Than I, the blow cam' sae severe ; We were for five-and- twenty year A frien❜ly twa. In sorrow, noo, I lave the tear— Jamie's awa' . His coach-mates maistly graveyards swell ; Some deet in Bedlam, some in Jail ; Some i' the Poorhoose-wae to tell But, Prince o' a'- The only good-was him we wail Jamie's awa'. Gin there be sic a glorious land Dick Weaver sings aboot sae grand, Whaur goodly men in glory stand He's there-that's a' ; Some day I'll shak' him by the hand, Tho' noo awa'. THE SAILOR'S WELCOME HAME. 'Tis mair than lang sax years, Willie, Sax weary years to me, Sin' ye left me here in tears, Willie To roam across the sea. An' mony a night I've sat, Willie, Nae sleep cud blin' my e'e, But wearied, watch'd, and grat, Willie, An' fondly thocht on thee. In midnicht drear and dark, Willie, Whan rude win's roar'd an' rav'd, I've pray'd " God save the barque," Willie, "The wrathfu' storm that brav'd :" An' aft the bairns wad speer, Willie, What gar'd me sich an' sigh : I pointed ower the pier, Willie, Whaur waves roll'd mountains high. The landsman's wife can rest, Willie, Whan blasts terrific blaw, An' on a loving breast, Willie, Can sleep the storm awa ; Surrounded wi' her dears, Willie, An' a' the joys o' life She little kens the fears, Willie, That haunt the sailor's wife. Nor can she feel the joy, Willie, Whan the sea-toss'd one returns, Whan each heart in girl an' boy, Willie, Wi' holy ardour burns. "Tis sweeter far to me, Willie, Than angel's tenderest lay, To feel, to ken, to see, Willie, Your barque is in the bay. Then welcome, welcome hame, Willie, Wave-toss'd, wave-worn for years ; Your voice, your smile, your name, Willie, To me bring joyous tears ; An' heaven be prais'd, nae mair, Willie, I'll dread the storm's alarms, While ye are on the shore, Willie, An' I am in your arms. TEMPLARS' NEW SONG. BAITH Jamie and I, Wi' this heat got sae dry— Oh! wha cud ha'e guess't it-och hon och hon ! That fam'd Miltonduff Prov'd sic glorious stuff, We cudna' resist it-och hon och hon ! The " spirit was willin' ," Tho' the heat was maist killin' , But the " flesh" was ower weak-och hon ! och hon ! We're bonny exemplars For folk to be Templars Twa hulks sprung a leak och hon ! och hon ! We gae'd to the " Ploo"," On the quiet-like you, Kennin' weel it was sinfu'-och hon ! och hon! But instead o' a smell, I'm asham'd, sirs, to tell, We baith took a skinfu'-och hon! och hon ! 'Twas sly o's-'twas awfu', Besides bein' unlawfu', To sniff the brain-robber-och hon ! och hon ! An' ever since then (Tho' we're excellent men), We haena' been sober-och hon och hon ! Gawn Bishopmill- wards, We were twa bonny bard's ; Gude guide's ! hoo we stagger't ! - och hon ! och hon ! Says I, " Jeemes, yer foo" (hic), Says Jeemes, " So are you" (hic) , An' he ca'd me a braggart-och hon och hon ! Wesaw not the " Sun," Whose rare race is run ; Yet set whaur it rose-och hon och hon ! At the gate o' the " Palace," Focht as bitter as aliss, Till we maist cam' to blows-och hon ! och hon ! An' noo the remorse That we feel, sirs, of course, Is something distressfu' - och hon ! och hon ! To think twa auld sinners, To the deil sud be rinners, Is mair than disgracefu'-och hon ! och hon ! Were it no for the Huntly (I'll oot wi' it bluntly), "The British Mess - enger" - och hon ! och hon ! Baith Jamie an' me, (Spirit speekin' ) micht be, In the greatest o' danger - och hon ! och hon ! We were baith kickit oot, In oor auld shabby suit A lesson to tappers-och hon ! och hon! To spurn for the future The bricht, temptin' pewter, That putrifies paupers-och hon och hon ! We're noo, bein' sae simple, Oot the pale o' the Temple ; But we're twa " Artful Dodgers” —och hon ! och hon ! Gin' they'll no tak' us back, As twa kings in the pack, We'll club, an' be sodgers-och hon och hon! SPUNKS NEW SONG. WHY doth the people grunt aboot The trifle o' taxation ? 66 Gin they maun keep a Royal suite" (The glory o' a nation), In claes, an' meal, an' milk, an' saut, "Tis richt that they sud pay. Though tyranny the " Reds" may ca't, Believe me whan I say- CHORUS 'Tis nae use kickin' up sic rows, Since big Lowe, in his funks, Has sworn to tax the little lowes That emanate frae spunks. 'Tis richt the carle sud raise the funds Whan income is deficit ; An' what aboot twa million punds ! That's nae a great sum-is it ? To fill the pension'd pauper pots Wi' tripe-soup day by day. Ye agitating rascal Scots, Believe me whan I say There's nae use kickin' up sic rows, Since big Lowe, in his funks, Has sworn to tax the little lowes That emanate frae spunks. Be thankfu' that he dinna tax Yer bannocks, brose, an' brochan, Nor yet the quytes that hap yer backs, The breeks that hauds yer hoch in. But triple tax the drunkards' still, To check his doonward way ; Although that mayna cure the ill, Believe me whan I say— There's nae use kickin' up sic rows, Since big Lowe, in his funks, Has sworn to tax the little lowes That emanate frae spunks. Be gled there's nae a tax laid on Yer wife's sheenong nor craidle ; Gin that were law the nicht-Ochone ! The morn we'd a skedaddle. Gude sen' oor wives weans ilka year, As lang's we've nocht to pay; Though sheen, an' claes, and grub be dear, Believe me whan I say - There's nae use kickin' up sic rows, Since big Lowe, in his funks, Has sworn to tax the little lowes That emanate frae spunks. Praise be, we're a' Free Templars noo, We'll ne'er again get boosie ; Instead o' spunks, we'll trim anew The auld eel rush-wick crusie. Then Lowe an' spunks may gang to smash, Or raise as weel's he may - The sma' deficit in his cash, Believin' whan we say - There's nae use kickin' up sic rows, Since big Lowe, in his funks, Has sworn to tax the little lowes That emanate frae spunks. THE MATCHLESS BUDGET. THOUGH Some folk hang themsels ilk day, Revival mad, nae maitter ; "Tis a' the samen hoo we pay The triflin' debt of natur' . For natur's debt is but a sham Compared wi' Bob's deficit ; Whilk I last Friday, in a psalm, Made splendidly explicit. Hoorah ! oor noble purse-filled few Will pay't an' never grudge it ; For loyal Britons glory noo In Bob Lowe's matchless Budget. Our Elgin folk a panic seized, An' dubs were thrown at Robin ; Tho' spunkless bachelors were pleased, Oor matchless maids went sobbin'; He micht exempted them, they said , Frae match-tax-sicca pity Wha got a gran' address-weel read An' Freedom o' the City. But sob nae mair ; oor income few Will pay't, an' winna grudge it, Since loyal Britons glory noo In Bob Lowe's matchless Budget. I got a note frae Bob himsel', To speer gin I'd advise him ; Were he to tripple tax Scotch ale, Wad Templar chaps despise him ! Na, na, wrote, I, nae fear o' that ; But, gin yer honour's willin', Clap on a tax upon the saut, An' mak' each pun' a shillin' ! The masses maun hae saut-that's true, An' true they wadna gruge it, Since Britain is delighted noo Wi' Bob Lowe's matchless Budget. I'M OWER THE LUGS IN LOVE AT LAST. I'm ower the lugs in love at last ; Lassie, will ye drive me mad ? Was ever mortal sae harrass'd ? 'Tis truly sad-'tis maddening sad ; Will nane hae pity-nane condole ? " A broken hairt is sair to thole." She winna tak' me-that's a fack Although I daily, hourly plead ; An' when I wish to gie'r a smack, She bids me gang and boil my head ; When she, the pretty, perverse limmer, Cud mak' my wintry life a simmer. I ca' her couthie, kind, and chaste, Divine, devoted, fond, and fair ; She laughs, an' bids me no to waste "My sweetness on the desert air." That's very complimentary-ain't it ?- After believing her sae saintit. I've wrote her verses-real love sangs, Sae sweetly fine, and nae mistak' ; But what's the upshot ? Pains an' pangs, Until my hairt is like to brak'. 'Tis time my race on earth was run, An' coffined, screwed, and undergrun'. Says I " Good morn, Louisa, dear," Which but provokes her taunts and titters ; An' gin I hap to stammer near, She says my breath smells sweet of bitters ; She won't be dodged, although I chowe A little cinnamon or clowe. She ca's me wrinkled, blin' , an' bauld, Though I've but seen my fortieth spring ; An' dae ye think is that ower auld To woo the dear, provokin' thing ? Though " love lies bleedin' ," what of that ? She taunts me-I'm as poor's a rat. Oh, wad some chap but hae the pluck To send me north a fifty pound, I micht experience better luck, For siller has a winning sound, 'Tis pity that the girl's sae dry To such a noble brick as I. I'll forge some skeletons o' keys, For I'm determined to be rich ; Afore I'm beat, sirs, if ye please, I'll gang an' raise the Endor witch ; Some counsel wise she micht divine Hoo I cud woo an' win the quine . She's worth the winnin'-faith, she is : Her beauty borders on divine : The nose that ornaments her phiz Is just the counterpart of mine. She-gossip's whisper'd, wha hae seen us, A marriage- likeness lies between us. Louisa, princess of my heart, With all thy winsome, winning charms, One little gleam of hope impart, An' bid me welcome to thine arms. If thou❜lt be fond as thou art fair, I'll neither rhyme nor reibble mair. We'll tak', my love, a tiny shop, An' sell red herrin' , cod, an' tripe, Bath-brick an' traickle, spunks an' pop, An' pretty cherries whan they're ripe ; An' whan ye're makin' paper bags, Then I'll gang oot an' gather rags. Louisa, what's the matter now ? Odds-fish ! I micht had better sense. Sweet princess, let us have no row ; I didna mean to gie offence. She's off, by jingo ! in a huff, An' I'm left here, lord - lorn - enough. TEA- GEORDIE'S DEAD! THERE'S nocht but death, an' dool, an' wae, In cot or ha' , gang whaur ye may ; Nae further gane than yesterday Wi' Geo. we preed A drap o' Dorby's usquebae - Noo Geordie's dead. True, Death is in the midst o' life, Whettin' his ugly bowie knife ; Mowin' , dockin-like, man, wean, an' wife, Withoot remead, E'en frae the Aunty-podes to Fife An' Geordie's dead. He micht, at least, passed Geordie's door, An' bathed his blade in fatter gore - Thae noble paupers , score on score, -'s bastard breed And loot Geo. live as lang's Jeemes Moir - But Geordie's dead. But, bless yer hairt, that wadna do, For Death maun hae his favourites too ; The scum that gars-'tween me an' you— The country bleed He'll pass scaith free ; an' faith it's true But Geordie's dead. He's shunned this while Kincardine O'Neil ; Auld Joseph Nicol's hale an' weel ; John Broon's aye hammerin' on his steel , An' pu'in' a thread ; An' fint a waur looks Eppie Yiel— Though Geordie's dead. James Davidson, upon the Knowe, Looks won'erfu' , though bauld his pow! An' coothy Archie Harper, wow, Ower Donald's mead, Faith, feels as swack's a saugh- wan' bough→ Though Geordie's dead. There's little odds these forty years On Willie Coutts, cairtmaker here ; George Christie aye, wi' spade an' bier* Can mak' his bread ; An' Jamie Hosie's e'e's as clear_ But Geordie's dead. George Sparks, in cradles an' coffins skilly (He made a kist langsyne for Willie) , Loups like a fat Lumphannan filly Through grassy mead ; Kincardine carls are game, my billy Though Geordie's dead. The wives will miss him sair, gweed man; His tea was Manning's pure A 1 . Ye'll find the hoose by east the Stran' Gin ye can read ; I ken't as weel's I ken my han'- But Geordie's dead. He tramp'd wi' Manning's lang and far - West frae Kincardine to Braemar Nor was he ever seen the waur (Though sair in need) O' Taylor's Royal Lochnagar - But Geordie's dead. Nae won'er though the women wail, "Tis doonricht trash the shop- chaps sell ; We micht as weel drink holy grail, Amaist as gweed, Or tray again Scotch nettle kail— For Geordie's dead. On Deeside we want naething finer ; Gie danties to yer oot- door diner ; We liked Geo.'s tea as well as Reynar' Likes a sheep's head. We're sure we'll never meet a kin'er, Sin' Geordie's dead. E'en Samuel's horn, this morn I found, Had somewhat o' a muffled sound ; Sam bocht frae Geordie mony a pound ; Samt kent 'twas gweed The best that grew on Cheena ground But Geordie's dead. Gin I could but thegither rake Afive-pound - note, the whole I'd stake, An' buy a suit as black's a blaick O' Bradford tweed, An' wear the kit for Geordie's sake Sin' Geordie's dead. Ye sclaverin' scamps, that fain wad hint Geo. got upon the spree, an' tint His leather bag an' a' thing in't, Tak' heed ! tak' heed ! Or then ye'll maybe catch't in print, Though Geordie's dead. ЕРІТАРН. Here lies Geordie Ewan, Wha delighted in brewin' The ladies' tea beverage sae sweet, man, Geo., tired o' the trade, Took it into his head, Or rather his stamach, an' deet, man, THE PRISON O' GLASS. WEEL, weel, this is something disgracefu' at last― A terrible gloom o'er my conscience is cast ; Folk thocht I was clever, but I've turned oot an ass Or I wadna be here in the prison o' Glass. I aince was a nicht in a Towbeeth langsyne, But that was the faut o' Saunt Peter, not mine, An' got stoorum for breakfast, which wasna firstclass ; But there's nae even that in the prison o' Glass. D'ye ken did I steal, sirs, a stot or a soo, Rin awa wi' a harrow or shoothered a ploo ? I kenna mysel' hoo it cometh to pass, But I ken I'm safe celled in the prison o' Glass. Was I drunk an' disorderly ? Heaven forfend ! I have lived aye a quiet man, an' will to the end ; An' leein' to me is as bitter as Bass, Though immured as a felon in the prison o' Glass. For stealin', ye ken weel, I ne'er had a gift ; I'm the awkwardest born at makin' a lift, For I'm sure to be catched, an' get soor fish an' sauce, Whilk I'm scunnered wi' noo in the prison o' Glass. Oh! would to the Powers I was Pius the Pope, I'd then be infallible, living in hope That disasters like this ane in future wad pass, An' forget bein' caged in the prison o' Glass. "Twad be better for me were I buriet wi' Dickens, Than suffer sic outrage, sic lickens and kickin's ; Ae nicht ' neath a cairt, an' the neist ' mang the grass, An' waur noo than a' , in the prison o' Glass. I feel that my cranium's a wee thochty muddy, Yet I canna believe but it's some ither body, For to beg, or to borrow, or steal, by the mass, I'm guiltless, though noo in the prison o' Glass. The turnkey's lauchin' , the lady's fine pleased To think sic a noble young fellow is seized ; But I'll break ilka bar, though Corinthian brass, An' bid them adieu, an' their prison o' Glass. Oh ! for a craw-steel, a file, an' a pick, Or a barrel o' poother, to blaw't tae Auld Nick, For I'd rather, indeed, be wi' Maggie, my lass, In the auld " Lemon Tree," than the prison o' Glass. I trust that you P. Deevils never will print it, At least, gin ye do, never mention wha sent it ; Keep a calm sough yersel's, an' perchance it may pass That yer freen was immured in the prison o' Glass. This rhymin' , an' rantin', an' rakin' aboot Winna pass muster langer, there's nae the least doot, For I ken, though yer prayin' it may ne'er come to pass, I'll be drooned, or then hung, in the prison o' Glass. SONG OF THE ELGIN TEMPLAR. WAES me for Minmore, an' Clynelish, an' Glenlivet ! An' even Linkwud, that we've lo'ed lang an' weel — Miltonduff, an' Benrinnes-(faith, I'm sorry to screive it) — Their simmers are number'd, like thine, Tochineal. Hoorah ! hallelujah ! sing praise for the movement — Come to the fount without siller or price ; Auld Elgin at last's made a step towards improvement - The Scots' " Seven Dials" for corruption an' vice. Then hoorah for the Templars ! - the noble Free Templars ; Despisers o' fusky, rum, brandy, an' gin - Jock Barley-corn killers - death-doomin' distillers, The boys wha can war wi' temptation an' sin. The race that sae lang in deep darkness were pinin' , Noo bask-glory be-in Mill-eeny-um licht ; There's nae sic a thing, noo, as drinkin' an' dwinin', Half-deid, aifter lodgin' in durance a' nicht ! Crack'd pows an' peel'd nasals are a' oot o' fashion, Soda-water, magnesia, pills , sinny an' salts ; The passion for grog has gi'en place to a passion For coffee an' cake, the trambone an' the waltz. Then hoorah, [and]c . Och hon for the " Harrow," the " Fife," " Ploo," an' "City," The " Stag," the " Twa Kittlins," " Oak," " Eagle," an' " Star !" An' Bump o' the " Boar's Head" (the deil's a grain pity) — Disgusted an' gruntin' , has lock'd up his bar ; The hairt o' ilk puhlican body sairly rackit is , An' thinkin' o' startin' mair lucrative trades— Their signs will be bocht up for rifle- ball practice, Their bowies be a bonfire when Be- a-trice weds. Then hoorah, [and]c. The " Knights o' the Thimble" are as busy as bummers, Sin' drinkin' an' deevilment's a' oot o' date ; The kirk-pews on Sunday are cramm'd wi' new comers, Sin' the day " Peter's Palace"* an' Jail were " To Let. " The sons o' " King Crispin" are " sober as Judges," An' turn up their nose at " Nick's biggin'" in scorn ; Their wives an' their sweethearts repair to the " Lodges," In the gayest o' tartan-" Louise an' Lorne." Then hoorah, [and]c. The Lawyers hae shut up their shops a'thegether - They've nae sic a dupe as a client ava ; The Grocers, doonheartit, are tipplin' wi' ither, An' cursin' the Templars-the cause o' it a' . Shirra' - O.'s that were saucy are noo sentimental, An' hae maistly forgot hoo to chalk a V.R.; Ilka soul in the City has tabl'd his rental, He formerly tabl'd at somebody's bar. Then hoorah, [and]c. Oor Blue-coated gentry are sair oot o' order_ They micht as weel slumber a' day in their beds ; They're frichten'd to death they'll be press'd " ower the border," Thence to Paris, per railway, to murder the " Reds !" Lang, lang they've been watchin' , an' fervently prayin' Their freen' , Demon Fusky, micht sen' them a job ; They'd raither see foo folk a-slashin' an' slayin', An' clap in the coffer the ither five " bob !" Then hoorah, [and]c . I'm as happy's a brick wi' my brither the " Cutler," Ower a cogie o' coffee, weel sweeten'd an' cream'd, An' tripe, stew'd wi' ingans (I can cook as weel's butler) — Richt prood we're baith Templars-reform'd an' redeem'd. Jeemie's new suit" is on ; - in my kilt frae Macdougall, We certainly look a most beautiful pair ! An' I sing the new sang, to the bass o' his bugle- "We're Templars ! Hip ! hip ! an' we'll tipple nae mair." Then hoorah, [and]c. MAG'S TIMMER BIEL' . THOUGH the biggin's but timmer frae the base to the lum, "Tis coothie within, man, sae dinna look glum, An' yer feet are in blobs frae the tae to the heel, Sae stap yer wa's in there to Mag's timmer biel'. Be thankfu' yer no on the banks o' the Rhine, Wi' a hole in yer heid, or a ba' - broken spine, For yer nae an Achilles, mair than I-an' ye'll feel Yer a michty sicht safer in Mag's timmer biel'. Though Mag's no sae slim as the wife o' a peer, An' can lift in her oxter sax firlots o' bear, She's a true-hearted woman, an can hear an appeal, Be contented an rest, then, in Mag's timmer biel'. Ye're as hungry as wearied, as ane wad suppose - Wi' a sleep an' a bowlfu' o' buttermilk brose, An a groat in yer sporran-yer hairt stoot an' leal, Ye'll be brawlie ere mornin' in Mag's timmer biel' . There are bees on the bum-there are birds on the wing, An' the coo o' the doos will induce you to sing, An' perfumes, breeze-borne, through the winnock that steal, Will delight yer olfactories in Mag's timmer biel' . See ! Cynthia has risen frae her couch in the sea, Ray-illuming the paps o' the steep Benachie, What mair cud a bard hae ? sae dinna ye feel That the scene is enchantin' frae Mag's timmer biel'. Creep awa' to yer hammack, and fancy 'tis true Yer dozin' again ' mang the silks o' Bijou, And as slumbers sae saft o'er yer oculars steal, Dream sweetly o' Lalla in Mag's timmer biel' . And dream of Omnipotence-dream of that God Whose providence watches the weary abroad, Thoughthe hoose wa's were granite, an' the roof o'it steel, Yer as safe in His love in an auld timmer biel'. MAGGIE'S KAIL-YAIRD. WE'VE been doon at Whitehoose, an' admired the Laird's flow'rs, An' they're lovely, that's true ; but they're naething like oors ; An' we've been through the garden, weel worthy the Laird, But it canna compete, though-wi' Maggie's kail-yaird. Though we've nae orange-blossoms, nor verbeenas, nae matter ; We've splendid effuschias, an' geraniums-that's better ; An' a gran' heatherange, that the show fowk declared Beat Alford for beauty-in Maggie's kail-yaird. Though we hinna the vine, nor the fig, nor the date, We've neeps, pease, an' spuds, which are truly firstrate ; Though we hinna a cedar, ' tis likely ye've heard O' a gran' roddan tree-growin' in Maggie's kail-yaird. An' we've rich honeysuckle for the drones an' the wasps, With loads o' gooseberries, black- currants, an' rasps, An' ingans an' leeks , at whilk mony hae stared, Grow green an' ooncankered-in Maggie's kail-yaird. Though we've neither yer melon, nor cucumber beds, We mak' cucumbers, carrots, an' melons, drumheads ; An' oor curlies, for length, may at least be compared To a leg an' half-leg-in Maggie's kail-yaird. Gin yer fond o' blaeberries, stap into the wood - A bowlfu' wad do Dicky Weaver's hairt good ; Wi' cream frae Lynturk, he wad soon get repaired In his health an' his spirits—in Maggie's kail-yaird. We're baith o' an age-though no just in heicht, For Mag's maist sax feet ; I'm but five an' an eicht ; But a foot up or doon, faith, we winna regaird - Hip, hip, an' hoorah, then, for Maggie's kail-yaird. MAGGIE'S LECTURE. WAS ever born sae daft a chiel ! Willie, ye're fairly to the deil, There hasna shone a sun sin' yeel That ye've been sober, Thro' biblin' that curst Tochineal - That dire brain robber. It's nae use preachin' t'ye—na, My lecture's only thrown awa, For a' I get's but " Foof an' bah, An' kittle-ma-lug," Tho' ye were lately smor'd ' mang snaw Near the " Black Jug." I had good hopes some day ye'd men', But a' these happy hopes are gane ; Yer hairt is growin' as hard's a stane To woman's prayer ; Ye aince were virtuous to the bane, But that's nae mair. Whan ye cam' first to oor guid toon, Ye were a decent, sober loon, An' mony a cantie sang wad croon Ben i' the parlour ; I never kent ye gie a froon, Nor look, nor snarler. Oh! Willie, Willie, simple man, Killin' soul an' body a' ye can Oontimely short'nin' life's bit span, Whilk's but a blink ; An' noo, the nicht ye scarce can stan' Wi' that curst drink. What's that ye say, yer nae nane foo ; Oo, ay, that's aye the tale wi' you : Ye only had a gill or twa Wi' Jock in Sandy's ; Yer breath wad gar a body spew An tak' the jaundice. Ye play'd'a ploy comin' frae Fordyce, Whilk I assure ye's far frae nice, Tho' lang the road, ' twas broader thrice, Bung foo an' styterin' ; Oh! Willie, drink's an awfu' vice, Aye at it blyterin'. An' in Smith's hoose-ever darin' , Ate o' his taties-little carin' , O' bottled beer ye werena sparin', An' some half- dizen O' first-class pickl'd last year's herrin' Gaed doon yer wizen. On heads an' tails ye maistly chockit, Till Smithy on yer back-bane knockit, An' then ye burst off like a rockit Until ye tumbl❜t In Smithy's midden, sairly sockit, Disjaskit, jumbl't. What say ye ?-dinna mak' a fuss - We women-folk sud no discuss - Ye think it's naethin', man, to us, But it's to me ; D'ye min' ye joggl'd oot the bus - Is that a lee ? Oor Jock himsel' was clean affrontit, He says he'll never get beyont it, Amang the mire ye row'd an' gruntit Like a stye caumel ; Yer en' will come some day-an' won't it - Kill'd by a tumble. Was ever mortal sic a sicht As you, whan ye cam' hame that nicht ? The wives an' weans ran wud wi' fricht Like a cow'd collie ; Oh ! wad some power but gi'e ye licht To see yer folly. Comin' doon the brae as ticht's a drum, Like mony anither drunken slum , Ye roar'd like mad-bung foo o' rum- " Sall in oor alley ;" Then maist ca'd ower the captain's lum In Dead Banes Valley. What! greetin' are ye ? God be wi' ye - Oh ! wad some parson come an' see ye, An' sage an' good advice wad giï'e ye, That ye wad cherish ; Mayhap the wicked ane wad lea' ye Afore ye perish. For, Willie, I am wae to think Ye'r standing on perdition's brink, An' a' through that confoonded drink Ye're aye renewin', That daily, hourly, thoosan's sink In utter ruin. Wisht ! haud yer tongue, man—dinna wail— I didna mean to rage an' rail ; An' folk micht hear, and folk micht tell , Gaun up the street- (I'll gi'e ' e a donal yet mysel') Sae dinna greet. They wad be pure an' pious folk That sneak an' dander, takin' stock, Tho' what they say but ends in smoke ; 'Tis just as weel To aye steer clear o' sic a flock, Wha'd vex the Deil. I ken ye'r nae just carin' muckle What folk may think, or what they keckle ; Nor are ye, Willie, fear'd to taickle ; The priest, whan rous'd ; But bitin' tongues are ill to shaikle Whan aince they're lous'd. There's some kind folk wad even hint The bairns' bawbees are never sent, That ilka plack an' penny's spent For that curst stuff ; But I can testify in print That that's a' buff. Ye'r nae the chap that's moral bad - Na, na, praise be, I never had To question ye for that, my lad ; Nor gane to cantin'- But whan ye'r foo , it mak's me sad To hear ye rantin'. Ye're jist as fine, as kin' a chiel, As ever stood on sole an' heel - Tak' my advice, it's for yer weel, Pit in the pin, An' bid adieu to Tochineal, Sorrow an' sin. An' noo gang ben an' wash yer face, That greeting's made ye sic a mess, An' then sit doon an' pray for grace An' I'll forget, An' maybe ye may find a place In my hairt yet. An' a' the country will respeck ye - Dinna be fear'd that I'll negleck ye ; I'll tea an' butter, toast an' steak ye As blythe as ever ; As lang's yer good, I'll ne'er forsake, Na, na, Will, never ! An' gin ye'd tak' the Holy Kiss, An' dance the gospel dance, I guess There's nae a lass wad tak't amiss ; As far's I'm thinkin' Ye'd find that mair exquisite bliss Than sittin' drinkin'. An' maybe some rich widow wife Micht tak' ye for goodman for life, For widows noo-a-days are rife ; An' I'll be bound A cantier twa, frae Skye to Fife, Will nae be found. An' lastly, Will, tak' this advice, Gin ye sud dander to Fordyce An' offer ye a gill- think twice Afore ye meddle, For better ty'e nail the price An' then skeddaidle ! A FOU FALLOW'S MIDNICHT REFLECTIONS. WEEL, this beats me and mortal ken, For twa-three blessed hoors I've gane Struttin' up an' doon ca'in' for the den In Tinker's clossie, An' here am I, my leefu' lane, Plumpin' in Lossie. I'm no sae vera fou' , I'm thinkin', A dizzen quarts were all oor drinkin' ; A gill or twa wi' Joe an' Jenkin Wound up the batter, And here I stick, a sonnet clinkin' , Knee- deep in water. Nae doot, I'm aff the straucht a wee - There's ae screw loose, there's maybe three ; I've tint the toon, or it's tint me, For, weel I wat : It's no whaur Elgin used to be, I'm sure o' that. I wadna for the warld a wicht Should see me sic a sorry sicht ; In latitude clean lost ootricht Through this hanged rumpus— Fou fowk should never sail at nicht Without a compass. I feel the earth gaen furlin' roon'- The vera thing, I'll beat a croon, That wiled awa' the gude auld toon - E'en Lossie water Is runnin' up instead o' doon, But that's nae matter, The trees ha'e grown an awfu' heicht Since I wis here the ither nicht ; The hay-coles seem, in Cynthia's licht, To haud a jig ; And yonder spans the burn sae bricht The gran' new brig. The starns themsel's are dancin' fou ; I see twa moons-the auld and new- Thae pleasant planetary crew Play buff thegither. While cloods , like phantom-ships, sail through Blue seas o' ether. Losh, man, it's grand, heaven's pearled sweep ! It's awfu' cauld doon here knee deep - I'll stan❜t nae langer, oot I'll leap An' seek the toon. Ye Powers, should I but fa' asleep I'm sure to droon ! I'm surely wi' some nichtmare hauntit, I canna catch the thing that's wantit ; I'm oot, hurrah ! I'm ower-clean cantit— Confoon' the beer ; De'il tak' the careless scamp that plantit A whin-bush here. Is that a hoose ? Ay, troth, it is, man. Is't Willie's, think ye ? Troth, it's his man; Haud straucht afore ye ; min' yer phiż, man, 'Mang thorny boughs. Steady ! follow up yer niz, man— The road's a' knowes. As for mysel' , I canna see— Hiccup !—the u―hic ! teelitee In makin' roads-an' that's nae lee - Sae awfu' broad, Especially when a lad like me Has sic a load. Gin I dird this way muckle langer, Depend upon't, I'll roose in anger ; I'm like a circus colt-say Sanger - Progressive nane ; It's a' the ale-wife's faut-hic ! - dang her ! I'm ower again. It's nae use fechtin' wi' ye, Johnnie - Yer ane for me the nicht ower mony ; But gin the morn was come, by Bonny I'se kirkwards edge, An' ca' upon a certain cronie An' sign the pledge. Noo, crack that nut, thou wanton carle, Wha mak's sic fools o's i̇' the warl' , Nor claes, nor can'le-licht, nor farl Within the hoose ; An' sair to bide is woman's snarl Whan tongues get loose. I ha'e ye there, my jolly blade ; I've got the noo nae scauldin' jade, An' yet, I wish to Heaven I haed, For this good reason, I wad ha'e missed this mad parade, Nocturnal, bleezin' . Praise be-it's nae ower late to men' ; I'se swear I'll ne'er get fou again, E'en though as dry's an Afric plain, Or Suez Isthmus - My resolution's fairly ta'en, At least till Christmas. What wad the fowk say could they see A fitless lump lyin' here, like me, Grippin' by the very grass-hic-hee ! — For fear I fa' ; I'm sensible it winna dee - Na, na, John, na. I've tint my snuff-box an' my bonnet, Wi' Scotia's sill'er thistle on it - A bad case, John, but ye mak' fun o't, Fine pleased, forsooth ! Ye never think aboot the sin o't - Ochon, that drooth ! It's no sae muckle bein' fou, But, man, it blunts, ' tween me an' you, Oor finer feelin's ; deadens, too, Oor best affections ; It's aye an ouk or I get through My sour reflections. I'll stick, I will, to lemon-water - A penny per glass is no great matter— An' drop this mad, self- murderin' batter, Killin' soul an' body ; I'se wed a wife, get hale an' fatter, An' jink the toddy, Losh me, the moon's far wastward ridden ! She micht, at least, till daylicht bidden - While here, atween twa hedges hidden, A worthless wicht, Lie I, like grumphy on a midden, Whilk sairs me richt. Is that a rainbow, think ye, John, That's risin' in the eastern zone ? Or is't himsel', the glorious sun, That deigns to blink Sae warmin' , cheerily upon The slave o' drink ! Adieu ! John, man, a lang adieu ! I'm up, I'm better, wiser noo - O' siccan romps as this wi' you I've had my sairin'. Ye Power, wha sends us licht anew, Forgi'e the errin' ! Oh, gin the sot could see himsel' Gaen swaggerin' hame, bung fu' o' ale, To hungry weans and wife sae pale, Saul- sick, hert- pained, Her hopes a' blighted-hame a hell - Like me, he'd mend ! THE CITY BAND. ONE wonders hoo some scamps hae cheek, Sae beggarly an' bland, man, To ony noble Cooncil speak, Aboot a City Band, man. As lang's the baker's bags can squeak, His drone an' chanter stand, man, We're pleas'd- an' mair sae, gin ye eke, Jim's fiddling, whilk is grand, man, To hear, this nicht. Besides, we hae New Elgin's Pag, Wha play'd in Bell's yestreen, man— A pupil o' auld Bottly's Meg, Wha fiddles in Aberdeen, man ; An' Jamick, wi' his pom-sae gleg—. As big's himsel' , I ween, man; Faith, hearty wad ye shak' yer leg, To hear them on the green, man, In this fine nicht. Then wherefare sud oor Cooncil wise, Subscribe a single note, man? Because, forsooth, some puppy cries, "The toon's gawn a' to pot, man." The Forres " Hope" may tak' oor size, An' " Spey" gaw-haw, an' plot, man ; An' " Nairn" wink its wicked eyes- We dinna carela groat, man, Gude kens, this nicht. The loons in Lossiemouth may laugh, They're only fisher sprats, man ; The Rothes rogues are but riff-raff— Wi' fewer Sharps than flats, man. Tho' Inverneish nainsels may chaff ; They a' man lift their hats, man, To us, wha are (at least ae half) , The shire's aristocrats, man, Richt full this nicht. His lordship's speech was good an' true, Altho' he kent ' twad fail, man, An' I believe, ' tween me an' you, Wad paid the trumps himsel' , man, Had no some o' the pious few Drave siccar in the nail, man, An' ca'd oor former hands a crew That pawned their flutes for ale, man— Sure's death, this nicht. I dinna think ' twas fair to blame, Nor pleasant to expose, man, Whan they, puir brutes, were starv'd at hame, For want o' beer and brose, man. The brass brocht in the beer to them, An' made the bairns jocose, man ; So aifter a' 'twas no great shame, Whan poortith pinch'd their nose, man Like mine, this nicht. On their ain boddoms let them stand Henceforth, or dree the lash, man, For We, the Wisdom o' the land, Will thole nae mair their fash, man. Or let the Templars raise a band, "Tis they wha save the cash, man, Wha've lick'd, as wi' a magic wand, The publicans to smash, man— Roupin' this nicht. We want nae band aboot oor gates, To crave us whan we dine, man ; We need it a' to pay oor debts An' keep a showy-shine, man. Oor virgin dochtors-pretty pets - Can tirl pianos fine, man, As we sit croose, an' crack oor nitts, An' sip Kempeian wine, man. FAT WIVES' SHOW. POOH ! any fool could neep a stot or coo, An' gie them oilcake till as fat's a whaul ; Then pootch, by way of prize, a pound or two. There's nae great credit in it, after all— In fack, we micht infer, as George assertit, "Fools and their money are, och hon ! soon pairtit." Instead o' shows o' nowte, ducks, dogs, an' cats, "Twad be mair honourable to have a show Of all our jolly workin' wives an' brats— The husbands to receive five pounds, or so , For those wha prove the fattest an' the shrewdest, An' those wha hae the langest tongues an' loodest. To those wha wear the smallest cockernony - For women's head-gear, noo, are like umbrellas ; They may be useful, tho' they be not bonny, To haud awa' the sunshine, fleas, an' fellows - The mair's the pity ; mony a dainty kiss, An slap, an' clap, an' cuddle the dear things miss. "Twad be, indeed, a pleasant sicht to see Five thousan' wives rang'd roon the Gallows Green (At least ' twad be a pleasant sicht to me), Under the patronage of Vic-the Queen - Who shall award each prize with bounteous han To each prize-winning husband-ain't it grand ? We're sick o' brute-beast shows, an' centenaries, Priest-craft an' Donal Dinnie-what are they ? We'll show oor wives an' dochtors, for it rare is, As noble as ' twill prove a noble play. I'll stan' ten poun's mysel'-an' mair than that - To him whose wife is ticketed-" Prime Fat." Phoo ! what care we for banquets ? —what care we For sodger Archie's graphic balderdash ? We've something mair legitimate than he In Hozier-whom ye'll find nae weeshy- wash. We want nae war, nor blood, nor bowie-knives— We merely want to show oor glorious wives. There's not in all the British Isles a race That can compete wi' oor Elginian mothers ; Perfect in symmetry-in every grace That Raphael paints-and " Mike," and all the others ; Then quick, good dads, to have them on the Green, And let their beauty and their babes be seen. EPISTLE TO JEEMES. WHAT'S a' this row aboot, my honoured brither - This wondrous war--this hub-hub-hub intense ? Ben Disraeli's gaun dottled a'thegither, An' mair big-wigs are lost to common sense. An' what's come ower oor croon- encircled mither, Wha's sent the ten Mosaic morals hence, Sin' some roomatic's seized her muckle tae - A cruel complaint I houp ye'll never hae? What's kittled up oor Presbyters sae jolly, Grown sic confoondit cankered carles of late ? Yon want o' faith an' worryin' seemed sic folly, ' Bout some Langbryde trombone they wished to get ! It mak's a body, Jamie, melancholy (At least it does to me, at ony rate), When God's ain servants " stand erect" thegither, An' , like bull dogs o' Baushan, bowf at ither. That's naething, Jeemes. I'd raither here ye chronicle Yer grave opinion a' anent Glengarry, Hoo Prelates preached to Pagans uncanonical→ That is, without their mitred robes. By Harry, The idea seems to me a squint ironical, An' flings us back to times afore Queen Mary, To raise a squabble ' bout a bit o' dress Some day a Rothes ragman may possess. I wadna cared though they'd been in their sarks, Or kiltit like Glengarry's stalwart men, As lang's they made me sensible remarks, " An' taught me something that I didna ken. My faith's first-class, of course ; as for my warks, I doot they winna stan' the test - that's plain ; But to mak' sure o' bliss, and bumble Nick too, I've catalogued some fifty creeds to stick to . In Lunnon village I becam' a Jew, Whan livin' wi' a Hebrew city " clo' ;" An' verily I micht hae stuck till❜t too, Had Auron been less butcher-minded - Oh ! Ae morn he entered wi' a sharp skeen- dhu, 66 Sir, come," says he ; " Sir Devil," says I, " I'll blow Yer brains oot, sir, gin ye attempt ance manglin' This virtuous corpse, by cuttin' or by stranglin'." 'Twas nae eese langer wi' the Jews to grapple - Synagogueism wad never work wi' Willie. I took a notion for the Catholic Chapel, An' micht hae been a member yet, my billy, Had not the beadle made my sweet Miss Maple Sit on the other side-it looked so silly : 'Tis poor religion, Map, says I, that parts Two pure, devoted, loving little hearts. At Carlton Hall, ae summer, doon in Leicester, I joined the Ranters, just by way of change, But mair to please my factory sweetheart, Esther - Though pretty, she was whiles a little strange. Rantin' religion, Jamie, I detest her, Street howlin' hymns on Sunday looks sae strange ; An' gin ye heard them in their meetin' hoose, Ye'd swear, like me, 'twas little hell let loose. Weel, I forgathered wi' a Methodist, Wi' hypocritical lang face an' shriven, Wha tried to clear my mental e'en frae mist To see the truth as truth in Scripture's given. I left him an' his brethren in disgust, Sure that the sordid lot disgustit Heaven Wi' their wild wails frae rotten hairts an' callous, Lang prayers, wry faces, deeply lined wi' malice. Weel, I, like ither renegades, returned To Mother Church-that is, the English Church-- An' , hingin' - moued, for past transgressions mourned, Syne left, at last, the Old Lady in the lurch. I took a thocht the Prayer- buik sud be burned Aboon a blazin' barrel o' tar an' birch ; That Heaven was wearied o' its sameness weekly, As weel's mysel', ' twas grown sae feeble an' sickly. I joined a jolly kirk in Symington - A sort of semi-Cockney, semi- Scot - Wi' fife an' fiddle, drum an' Irish drone, Harp, organ, tambourine, an' a' what not. The music there, auld boy, frae me alone Was worth, ilk Sunday, to the plate a groat. I left because their leader-that old viper - Engaged anither Scotchman for a piper. A glorious sect o' Mormons next invited me, In Huddersfield, to join their social ban' ; I don't deny the women folks delighted me, But, never bein' much o' a sensual man, A half-a-dizen wives at ance affrighted me, Haeing scarcely cheek enough to get even one. So, after some weeks' fastin' an' much prayer, Thinks I, by gosh ! I'll slip the whole affair. I stappit ower to Annie Baptist then, Wha publicly wad hae me dubbed an' dookit, An' scrubbit weel wi' soap an' san' , ye ken, To mak' me pure, an' get a new name bookit. I cudna stamack toddlin' naked ben, An' , as a last resource, thinks I, I'll " hook it." An Independent, then, I thocht I'd be ; But, bah ! they proved too pauperised for me. In Manchester I met a Broad-brim blade - Aportly, well-to- do-like cotton spinner, Under his friendly wing I crept for aid, An' , spirit-moved, commenced a brisk beginner. Upon my sad dilemma, " Friend," he said, " I'm sorry for ye. Come to us, poor sinner." I went downto the Quaker Hoose at Hulme's : I micht as weel gane to the Catie- cooms ! I joined some mad Revivals aifter this, An' went aboot as mad's the rest for lang - Rampauged, blasphemed, an' took the holy kiss, An' sang sweet hymns to that sweet air " Slap Bang." A lady-freen' o' mine-a certain Miss - Fearin' I micht gang a'thegither wrang, Took me to hear a fellow preach on Tweed : He sickened me-the pith o't a' was greed. Weel, by-an'-by I took a tour abroad, Bein' , as I always am, weel stored wi' brass. The first French grun' that my Scotch clappers trod Was on its western neuk-Haver- the- Grass ; Syne up the Seine to Paris took the road, Whaur I looked quite as stupid as an ass. I fand the fowkies very frank an' gay, An' ca'd the Sunday there their holiday. They gaed to Notre Dame an' said their prayers, Then took a cafe dejeuner at nine, An' then sat doon an' played the cairts wi' freres O' the same stamp, ower cups o' claret wine. Syne for the theatre ilka chap prepares, As soon's on pickled puddock-hochs they dine ; Some to the salon's dansee, some to fetes, An' some to meet their loves upon the streets. An' thus Parisian Sundays wear awa' ,. Religion, labour, politics, an' fun Go hand-in-hand frae mornin's brilliant daw Till Vendome glories in the settin' sun. I canna say that I approved o't a', No ; I'm a solemn chap whan a' is done. Being in a Presbyterian womb conceived My conscience sometimes felt a thocht aggrieved, Noo, whilk o' a' these multifarious creeds Wad ye advise me to become a member? I fear the better half are broken reeds, An' some near han' as frigid as December. For something warmer, nobler, reason pleads, To coothiefie the soul's remotest chamber, With less of self, that mak's this life a hell, An' mair o’ " Love yer neebor as yersel'." What cares high Heaven for pompous pulpit goons, Or Bishops' gaudy drapery ? Not a whit. What better are proprietors o' croons, Than honest, humble you or I, to wit. Salvation disna come through silver spoons. Na, na; the pure an' contrite hairt's the bit. Wewant less pompous priestcraft an' formality, An' mair o' love an' genuine morality. THE CHILD'S SONG TO THE BLIND BARD. A BLIND bard sat sighin' to the burnie's blythe bubble, On its velvety bank, ' neath a broad elm tree ; His breast, as it heav'd, show'd a bosom in trouble, An' a tear filled the neuk o' his visionless e'e. He dream'd o' sweet simmers, that had lang, lang flown o'er him - The lone gloomy future he shudder'd to trace ; He sawna the smiles o' a wee thing before him, That lichtit her juvenile, beautiful face. As fleet's a gazelle, she leapt ower to his bosom, To soothe his wild wae, and his darkness to cheer ; He wept, he was blind, and she wish'd to amuse him, Then plaintively pour'd her saft sang in his ear. “ Hush, hush, my blind minstrel ! oh ! why are ye grievin'? Hae thochts o' dark loneliness cloodit yer mind ? Dinna think yer forgotten, but be blythe in believin' That God gars His angels watch over the blind. "I think o' thy dungeon o' darkness in sorrow—— Though bright be the noonday, 'tis midnight to thee ; The sunset at eve, nor the dawn o' the morrow, Nor moonbeam, nor star ray, e'er gladden thine e'e ; Nor seest thou the cloods o' rich crimson, that hover, And far thro' the bright blue o' heaven are borne ; Nor the thousands o' wild flowers that bloom 'mid the clover, In all the gay hues o' a rainbow at morn. ""Tis sad to be blind, then, and never to gaze on The faces of those whom we honour and love ; Nor see, God adoring, the red rays that blazon The green earth below, and the mild blue above. Oh! that the Power, as of old, would benignly Restore thee to sight and to solace again ; An' yet I am glad when ye tell me, divinely, Yer soul sees bright things in a world o' its ain. " Whan a smile lichts yer e'e up, an' deep in yer study, I oftentimes wonder, is't the angels ye see ; An' yer lips move, as mutterin' to some other body, " While naebody's near ye to listen but me. Perhaps it is, then, thro' those lands ever nichtless, Yer soul soars awa' on a cherubim's wing ; 'Tis sae grand that I sometimes hae wish'd mysel' sichtless , "Tho kennin' 'twas sinfu' to wish sic a thing. "While the summer is gay in broom blossoms an' brumble, We'll doon whaur the burnie trots cool thro' the dell ; An' , hark ye, ye needna be fley'd that ye'll stumble, For I'll be yer wee guardian angel mysel'. The merlin's sweet matin, I'm sure, will invite ye To wander abroad ower the dew-spangled lea ; An' the sang o' the reapers in hairst will delight ye, A' we'll baith be as happy's twa bodies can be. " There's nane sall dare vexye, there's nane sall deride ye, I'll watch ye and wale ye the best o' the road ; An' at nicht when yer wearied I'll crootch doon beside ye, An' sooth ye wi' psalms frae the volume of God. An' golden- winged angels frae regions sae balmy Will bear to our Father in glory my prayer ; Be cheerful, blind minstrel, and bid me, yer lammie, Creep intae yer oxter, an' dinna greet mair." Her sang on his hairt was sae deeply indented, Nae word cud he utter, that hairt was sae fu', But, drawin' the wee thing to his bosom, imprinted A kiss on her sweet lip, a tear on her broo. Noo, wi' ae han' in hers, an' his staff in the ither, He jogs along gaily, sae prood o' his guide, The fears that perplexed him hae fled a'thegither Sin' the day sic an angel has trip'd by his side.
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