O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! FOOTNOTES: [1] Sough. [2] Stagger. [3] Fire, or fireplace. [4] By-and-by. [5] Careful. [6] Inquires. [7] News. [8] Makes. [9] Diligent. [10] Dally. [11] Half. [12] Into the spence, or parlor. [13] Gossips. [14] Cows. [15] Bashful. [16] Sheepish. [17] Rest. [18] Porridge. [19] A white-faced cow. [20] Wall. [21] Chews her cud. [22] Saved. [23] Cheese. [24] Twelvemonth. [25] Flax was in flower. [26] Gray locks. [27] Chooses. [28] Increases. [29] Pope's 'Windsor Forest.' [30] Pope's 'Essay on Man.' JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN A Dirge When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One evening, as I wandered forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care; His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?" Began the reverend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, pressed with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man! "The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride;-- I've seen yon weary winter sun Twice forty times return; And every time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. "O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway, Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That man was made to mourn.