16 My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er, Yet lip meets with lip at the lastward-get out! She has been there before. They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore. 17 If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoofslide is scarred on the course. Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth for ever Remorse. 18 'By all I am misunderstood!' if the Matron shall say, or the Maid: 'Alas! I do not understand,' my son, be thou nowise afraid. In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed. 19 My son, if I, Hafiz, thy father, take hold of thy knees in my pain, Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour-refrain. Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain? THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS B ENEATH the deep veranda's shade, I sit me down and watch-alas! Another evening die. Blood-red behind the sere ferash Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith, But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now, And Putney's evening haze In place of Putney's golden gorse The sickly babul blooms. Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust And bid the pie-dog yell, Draw from the drain its typhoid germ, From each bazar its smell; Yea, suck the fever from the tank Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face T THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE HIS fell when dinner-time was done"Twixt the first an' the second rubThat oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahint the Club. An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, Then up and spake an elder mon, That held the Spade its Ace 'God save the lad! Whence comes the licht That wimples on his face?' An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled, 'There's whusky brewed in Galashiels, An' L. L. L. forbye; But never liquor lit the low That keeks fra' oot your eye. 'There's a thrid o' hair on your dress-coat breast, Aboon the heart a wee?' 'Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye That slobbers ower me.' 'Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, An' terrier dogs are fair, But never yet was terrier born Wi' ell-lang gowden hair! 'There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast Below the left lappel?' 'Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, Whenas the stump-end fell.' 'Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse, For ye are short o' cash. An' best Havanas couldna leave "This nicht ye stopped a story braid, Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel', 'Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou! Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band An' it fell when siris-shaws were sere, |