Whan I had been fu' laith to rise,
John then begude to moralize :
"The tither nap, the sluggard cries,
"And turns him round:

"Sae spak auld Solomon the wise,
"Divine profound!"

Nae dominie, or wise Mess John,
Was better lear'd in Solomon ;
He cited proverbs, one by one,

Ilk vice to tame;

He gar'd ilk sinner sigh and groan,
And fear hell's flame.

"I hae nae meikle skill, (quo' he), "In what you ca' philosophy;

"It tells that baith the earth and sea

"Rin round about:

"Either the Bible tells a lie,

"Or ye're a' out.

"It's i' the Psalms o' David writ,

"That this wide warld ne'er shou'd flit,

"But on the waters coshly sit

Fu' steeve and lastin:

"And was na he a head o' wit

"At sic contestin ?"

On e'enings cauld wi' glee we'd trudge
To heat our shins in Johnny's lodge:
The deil ane thought his bum to budge
Wi' siller on us :

To claw het pints we'd never grudge
O' molationis.

Say, ye red gowns! that aften, here,
Hae toasted cakes to Katie's beer,
Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer,
Sae blithe, sae daft?
You'll ne'er again, in life's career,

Sit half sae saft.

Wi' haffit locks, sae smooth and sleek,

John look'd like ony

ancient Greek:

He was a Nazʼrene a' the week,

And doughtna tell out

A bawbee Scots to scrape his cheek,

For John

Till Sunday fell out.

ay lo'ed to turn the pence;

Thought poortith was a great offence:

"What recks, tho' ye ken mood and tense? "A hungry wyme

For gowd wad wi' them baith dispense, "At ony time.

"Ye ken what ills maun ay befal “The chiel that will be prodigal ; "Whan wasted to the very spaul,

"He turns his tusk,

(For want o' comfort to his saul)
"O' hungry husk."

For

Ye royit louns! just do as he'd do: mony braw green shaw and meadow He's left to cheer his dowie widow,

His winsome Kate,

That to him prov'd a canny she-dow,

Baith ear' and late.

S $

THE GHAISTS,

A Kirk-Yard Eclogue.

Did you not say, in good Ann's day,
And vow, and did protest, Sir,
That when Hanover should come o'er,
We surely should be blest, Sir?

AN AULD SANG MADE NEW AGAIN.

WHARE the braid planes in dowie murmurs wave Their ancient taps out owre the cauld-clad grave, Whare Geordie Girdwood*, mony a lang-spun day,

Houkit for gentlest banes the humblest clay, Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grizly and sae wan, 'Mang lanely tombs their douff discourse began.

*The late Sexton.

WATSON.

Cauld blaws the nippin North wi' angry seugh, And showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh Owre the Grayfriars, whare, at mirkest hour, Bogles and spectres wont to tak their tour,

Harlin the pows and shanks to hidden cairns, Amang the hemlocks wild, and sun-brunt ferns; But nane the night, save you and I, hae come Frae the drear mansions o' the midnight tomb. Now, whan the dawnin's near, whan cock maun

craw,

And wi' his angry bougil gar's withdraw,

Ayont the kirk we'll stap, and there tak bield, While the black hours our nightly freedom yield.

HERIOT.

I'm weel content: but, binna cassen down,
Nor trow the cock will ca' ye hame o'er soon;
For, tho' the eastern lift betakens day,
Changing her rokelay black for mantle gray,
Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings,
Nor sheds the cauler moisture frae his wings.
Nature has chang'd her course; the birds o' day
Dosin in silence on the bendin spray,

While howlets round the craigs at noontide flee,
And bluidy hawks sit singin on the tree.
Ah, Caledon! the land I aince held dear;
Sair mane mak I for thy destruction near