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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,
When bats begin to fly,

I sit me down and watch-alas!

Another evening die.

Blood-red behind the sere ferash
She rises through the haze.
Sainted Diana! can that be
The Moon of Other Days?

Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,
Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
The Moon of August shone,
When arm-in-arm we wandered long
Through Putney's evening haze,
And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
The Moon of Other Days?

But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now,

And Putney's evening haze
The dust that half a hundred kine
Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
The seething city looms,

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
And sap my strength therewith:

Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
To little Kitty Smith!

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 we thocht him fou,

An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,
An' garred his partner rue.

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,
An' ower the card-brim wunk:-
'I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,
Maybe that I am drunk.'

'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
Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid,
An' stopped it wi' a curse-

Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel',
An' capped it wi' a worse!

'Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!
But plainly we can ken

Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band
O' cantie single men!'

An' it fell when siris-shaws were sere,
An' the nichts were lang and mirk,
In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,
Oor Jockie gaed to the Kirk.

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