But time an' your patience wad fail me to tell,

How she spent an' abus'd baith his means an' himsel',
For constant an' on as the rin o' the burn,
Her hand it was aye i' the unhappy turn-
Till siller, an' gear, an' a' credit was gane,
Till he had na a pennie or aught o' his ain;
Till age an' vexation had wrinkl'd his brow,
Till he had na a morsel to gang in his mou'!

Aweel! neither able to want nor to win,

A'e mornin' last week, ere the daylight came in—
Thro' the lang eerie muirs, an' the cauld plashy snaw,
Wi' his staff in his hand he had wander'd awa'—
To seek a fa'n bit for his daily supply,

An' to thole the down-leuk o' the proud an' the high.
O! had I but seen him whan he gaed a-field,
I wad ta'en him in-with to my ain couthie beild;
An' wi' my auld neebour shar'd frankly an' free,
My bannock, my bed, an' my hinmost bawbee.

How far he had gane-how he'd far'd thro' the day,
What trials he had met wi', I canna weel say;
But whan the grey hour o' the gloamin' fell down,
He sought the fireside o' some distant farm-town—
Wi' the door hauflin's up, an' the sneck in his han'
He faintly inquired—wad they lodge a poor man?
The mistress gaz'd on him, an' drylie she spak',
"We may lodge you the night, but ye maunna come
back"-

Said beggars an' gang'rels ware grown unco rife,
Speer'd what place he came frae-gin he had a wife?—
Ay! that was a question !—O, sirs, it was sair,
Had na he ha'en a Wife!—he wad never been there!
Cauld, cauld at their backs thro' the evenin' he sat,
An' cauld was the bed, an' the beddin' he gat,
The floor an' the rooftree was a' they could spare,
An' he lay down, alas! to rise up never mair ;—

Was he lang or sair ill, there was naebody saw,
Gin the daylight came in-he had worn awa'!

Wha ance wad ha'e thought it, that Archie wad been
A beggar-an' dee't in a barn his lane!

But we need na think this will, or that winna be,
For the langer we live the mae uncos we see.

The Witch of Fife.

Few poets of any country or time have rivalled James Hogg, our own delightful "Ettrick Shepherd,” in the delineation of the mysterious and uncanny. His "Kilmeny is a fairy tale for beauty of conception and grace of diction perhaps without a peer in literature; and The Witch of Fife" is dashed with an eerie humour scarcely less potent to fascinate, horrify, and amuse than the immortal tale of "Tam o' Shanter." With "Kilmeny," it forms one of the tales in "The Queen's Wake."

"Quhare haif ye been, ye ill womyne,
These three lang nightis fra hame ?
Quhat garris the sweit drap frae yer brow,
Like clotis of the saut sea faem?

"It fearis me muckil ye haif seen,
Quhat guid man never knew;

It fearis me muckil ye haif been

Quhare the gray cock never crew.

"But the spell may crack, and the brydel breck, Then sherpe yer werde will be ;

Ye had better sleippe in yer bed at hame, yer deire littil bairnis and me."

Wi'

"Sit doune, sit doune, my leil auld man, Sit doune, and listen to me;

I'll gar the hayre stand on yer crown,

And the cauld sweit blind yer e'e.

"But tell nae wordis, my guid auld man,

Tell never word again;

Or deire shall be yer courtisye,

And driche and sair yer pain.

"The first leet night, quhan the new moon set,
Quhan all was douffe and mirk,

We saddled ouir naigis wi' the moon-fern leif,
And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk.

"Some horses ware of the brume-cow framit,
And some of the grein bay tree;

But mine was made of ane humloke schaw,
And a stout stailion was he.

"We raide the tod doune on the hill,

The martin on the law;

And we huntyd the hoolet out of brethe,
And forcit him doune to fa"."

"Quhat guid was that, ye ill womyne?
Quhat guid was that to thee?

Ye wald better haif been in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me."-

"And aye we raide, and se merrily we raide,
Throw the merkist gloffis of the night;

And we swam the floode, and we darnit the woode, Till we cam' to the Lommond height.

"And quhan we cam' to the Lommond height,
Se lythlye we lychtid doune ;

And we drank fra the hornis that never grew
The beer that was never browin.

"Then up there raise ane wee, wee man,
Fra nethe the moss-gray stane;

His fece was wan like the collifloure,
For he nouthir had blude nor bane.

"He set ane reid-pipe till his muthe,

And he playit se bonnilye,

Till the gray curlew and the black-cock flew
To listen his melodye.

"It rang se sweit through the grein Lommond,
That the nychte-winde lowner blew ;
And it soupit alang the Loch Leven,

And wakinit the white sea-mew.

"It rang se sweit through the grein Lommond,
Se sweitly butt and se shill,

That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis,
And dancit on the mydnycht hill.

"The corby craw cam' gledgin' near.

The ern ged veeryng bye;

And the troutis laup out of the Leven Loch,
Charmit with the melodye.

"And aye we dancit on the green Lommond,

Till the dawn on the ocean grew;

Ne wonder I was a weary wycht

Quhan I cam' hame to you."

"Quhat guid, quhat guid, my weird, weird wyfe,
Quhat guid was that to thee?

Ye wald better haif bein in yer bed at hame,
Wi' yer deir littil bairnis and me."

"The second nycht, quhan the new moon set,

O'er the roaryng sea we flew ;

The cockle-shell our trusty bark,

Our sailis of the grein sea-rue.

"And the bauld windis blew, and the fire-flauchtis flew,

And the sea ran to the skie;

And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs howlit,
As we gaed scouryng bye.

"And aye we mountit the sea grein hillis,

Quhill we brushit through the cloudis of the hevin ; Than sousit dounright like the stern-shot light, Fra the liftis blue casement driven.

"But our taickil stood, and our bark was good,
And se pang was our pearily prowe;
Quhan we cnldna speil the brow of the wavis,
We needilit them throu' belowe.

"As fast as the hail, as fast as the gale,

As fast as the mydnycht leme,

We borit the breiste of the burstyng swale,

Or fluffit i' the flotyng faem.

"And quhan to the Norraway shore we wan, We muntyd our steedis of the wynde,

And we splashit the floods, and we darnit the woode, And we left the shouir behynde.

"Fleit is the roe on the grein Lommond,

And swift is the couryng grew,

The rein-deir dun can eithly run,

Quhan the houndis and the hornis pursue.

"But nowther the roe nor the rein-deir dun,
The hinde nor the couryng grew,
Culde fly owr montaine, muir, and dale,
As our braw steedis they flew.

"The dales were deep, and the doffrinis steep,

And we raise to the skyis ee-bree;

Quhite, quhite was our rode, that was never trode,

Owr the snawis of eternity!

"And quhan we cam' to the Lapland lone,

The fairies war all in array;

For all the genii of the north

War keipyng their holeday.