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Shall never pass the polar bar.
The wanton boy that kills the fly s
Shall feel the spider's enmity;
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night. *
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief;
The wild deer wandering here and there
Keep the human soul from care;
The lamb misused breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife,
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgment draweth nigh.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou shalt grow fat.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

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He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mocked in age and death;
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out;
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The babe is more than swaddling-bands
Throughout all these human lands;
Tools were made, and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.

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The questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to reply;
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out;
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please;
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.

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MINOR

Let Whig and Tory all agree
Whig and Tory! Whig and Tory!
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
To drop their Whig-mig-morum;
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
To spend the night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,
The reel o' Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight,
It gars' us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph’” that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
For blythe and cheery we's be a'!
Blythe and cheery! blythe and cheery!
Blythe and cheery we's be a',
And make a happy quorum.
For blythe and cheery we's be a”,
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.

There needs na' be sae great a phrase,
Wi’ dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys"
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff" and dowie" at the best!
Douff and dowie 1 douff and dowie'
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest,
They cannot please a Scottish taste,
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi’ fears of want and double cess."
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi’ keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit?
Sour and sulkyl sour and sulkyl
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like old Philosophorum ?
Shall we so sour and sulky sit,
Wi’ neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
To the reel of Tullochgorum ?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him
May peace and plenty be his lot!
Peace and plenty! peace and plenty
* makes * any surly person
“dreary * dull "taxes

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dances

* lively Scotch

May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' 'em;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain’d by any vicious spot!
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the dirty, yawning fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him
May dool" and sorrow be his chance!
Dool and sorrow ! dool and sorrow !
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say wae's me for 'im 1
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE

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THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE

HOUSE 2

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark?
Ye jauds," fling by your wheel.
Is this the time to think of wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Gi'e me my cloak I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava; *

There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's awa.”

Rise up and mak’ a clean fireside; Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday coat:

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And mak’ their shoon as black as slaes,'

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There's twa fathens upon the bauk," Been fed this month and mair;

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Mak’ haste and thraw' their necks about,

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