Wee Miller, niest, the guard relieves,
An' orthodoxy raibles,

Though in his heart he weel believes,
An' thinks it auld wives' fables:
But, faith! the birkie wants a manse,
So cannily he hums them!

Although his carnal wit an' sense
Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him
At times that day.

Now butt an' ben, the change-house fills,
Wi' yill-caup commentators:
Here's crying out for bakes and gills,
An' there the pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,
Wi' logic an' wi' Scripture,

They raise a din, that in the end,

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.

Leeze me on drink! it gies us mair,
Than either school or college:
It kindles wit, it waukens lair,
It pangs us fu' o' knowledge:
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger portion,

It never fails, on drinking deep,
To kittle up our notion

By night or day.

The lads an' lasses, blithely bent
To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,
An' steer about the toddy.

On this ane's dress, and that ane's leuk,
They're making observations;

While some are cozie i"the neuk,

An' formin' assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',

An' echoes back return the shouts:
Black Russell is nae spairin':

His piercing words, like Highland swords,
Divide the joints an' marrow;

His talk o' hell, where devils dwell,

Our vera sauls does harrow

Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottomed, boundless pit,
Filled fu' o' lowin' brunstane,

Whase ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,

Wad melt the hardest whunstane!
The half-asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neebor snorin'
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre-lang a tale to tell
How monie stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill
When they were a' dismist :
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms an' benches:

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife,-The lasses they are shyer.

The auld guidmen, about the grace,

Frae side to side they bother, Till some ane by his bonnet lays, An' gies them 't like a tether,

Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives be mindfu', ance yoursel'
How bonnie lads ye wanted,
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted

On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love and drink,

They're a' in famous tune

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fu' o' love divine;

There's some are fu' o' brandy:

An' monie jobs that day begun,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.*

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penned :
E'en ministers, they hae been kenned,
In holy rapture,

A rousing whid at times to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true's the Deil in hell

Or Dublin city:

That e'er he nearer comes oursel'

'S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stachered whyles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenned aye
Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glower
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel';

But whether she had three or four,
I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin' down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker:

Though leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

A schoolmaster who took to quackery.

I there wi' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-taed leister on the ither

Lay, large an' lang.

Its stature seemed lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For fient a wame it had ava;

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

As cheeks o' branks.

'Guid-e'en,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin' When ither folk are busy sawin'?'

It seemed to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

At length, says I, 'Friend, whare ye gaun,

Will ye go back?'

It spak right howe,
But be na fleyed.'
Ye're maybe come

'My name is Death,
Quoth I, 'Guid faith,
to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!'

'Guidman,' quo' he, 'put up your whittle, I'm no designed to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be misleared;

I wad na mind it, no, that spittle

Out-owre my beard.'