THE WONDERFU' WEAN.

OUR wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw;
It would tak me a lang simmer day to tell a'
His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his ee,
When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me;
For in his quite turns siccan questions he'll speir!

How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear?
What gars the wind blaw? and whar frae comes the rain?
He's a perfec' divirt- he's a wonderfu' wean!

Or wha was the first bodie's father? and wha
Made the vera first snaw-shooer that ever did fa'?
And wha made the first bird that sang on a tree?
And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea?
But after I've told him as weel as I ken,

Again he begins wi' his wha and his when;
And he looks aye sae wistfu' the whiles I explain :
He's as auld as the hills-he's an auld-farrant wean.

And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head
Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' winnin' ane's bread;
How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for him,
Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug-shuggin' afore him;
Wi' a face like the moon-sober, sonsy, and douce,
And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house.

THE WONDERFU' WEAN.

'Tweel! I'm unco ta'en up wi't

they mak a' sae plain.

He's just a town's talk; he's a by-ord'nar wean !

I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat,

To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat;

Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees

The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease;

Then he marched through the house, he marched but, he marched

ben,

Like owre mony mae o' our great little men,

That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna contain:

He was sic a conceit sic an ancient-like wean!

But 'mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows,
That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose;
And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in his ee

Maks him every day dearer and dearer to me.
Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour,

And gloom through her fingers like hills through a shooer,
When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o' their ain,

How he cheers up their hearts! - he's a wonderfu' wean!

WILLIAM MILLER.

THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH.

WHEN the breach was open laid,
Bold we mounted to the attack :
Five times the assault was made;
Four times were we driven back!
But the fifth time up we strode,
O'er the dying and the dead.
Red the western sunbeams glowed,
Sinking in a blaze of red;
Redder in the gory way

Our deep plashing footsteps sank,
As the cry of "Slay - Slay - Slay!”

Echoed fierce from rank to rank.

And we slew, and slew, and slew:
Slew them with unpitying sword.
Negligently could we do

The commanding of the Lord?
Fled the coward, fought the brave,
Wept the widow, wailed the child;
But there did not 'scape the glaive
Man that frowned, nor babe that smiled.
There were thrice ten thousand men
When that morning's sun arose ;
Lived not thrice three hundred when
Sunk that sun at evening's close.

THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH.

Then we spread the wasting flame,
Fed to fury by the wind:
Of the city—but the name,
Nothing else, remained behind.
But it burned not till it gave
All it had to yield of spoil:
Should not brave soldadoes have
Some rewarding for their toil?
What the villain sons of trade
Earned by years of toil and care,
Prostrate at our bidding laid,

In one moment won

was there.

Hall and palace, dome and tower,
Lowly cot and soaring spire,
Sank in that victorious hour
Which consigned the town to fire.
Then throughout the burning town,
'Mid the steaming heaps of dead,
Cheered by sound of hostile moan,
We the gorgeous banquet spread:
Laughing loud and quaffing long,
At our glorious labor o'er,
To the skies our jocund song
Told Magdeburgh was no more!

WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA.

O, SING unto my roundelay!

O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday:

Like a running river be!

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be;

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout.

O! he lies by the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,
In the briered dell below;

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.