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 Brother 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 bow'r :

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise incog.

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'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 fo’k,

An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An'

An' how ye gat him' i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' blotches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked Scawl,
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 tongue, 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,

Το black pit;
your

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you yet.

*Vide MILTON, Book vi.

But,

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

THE

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR's ONLY PET YOWE.

An unco mournfu' Tale.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by.

Wi'

* A neibor herd-callan.

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;

He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

"O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear, as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will;
So his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

may

Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' ay was guid to me and mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

O, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!

But