When nature first began, Jean, To try her canny hand, It’s true she first made man, Jean, And gave him great command; But naething wad content him, Jean, Though king o’ a’ below, Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean, What maist he wish――a jo. Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean. And say the same o’ thee, Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean, You still look young to me; And weel I mind the day, Jean, Your breast was white as snow, An waist sae jimp one might it span, Jean Anderson, my jo. Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean, Wi’ rapture do I see, Come todlin’ to the fireside, Or sit upon my knee; If there is pleasure here, Jean, Or happiness below, This surely maun be likest it, Jean Anderson, my jo. Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow, Sin’ we were first acquent, An’ changed my glossy raven locks, It’s left us still content; And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean But oft brings many a wo. But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints, Jean Anderson, my jo. In innocence we’ve spent our days, An’ pleasant looks the past. Nae anxious thoughts alarm us, We’re cheerful to the last; Till death knock at our door, Jean, And warn us baith to go, Contented we will live and love, Jean Anderson, my jo. It’s now a lang lang time, Jean, Sin’ you and I begun, To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean, Our race is nearly run; We baith hae done our best, Jean Our sun is wearin low, Sae let us quietly sink to rest, Jean Anderson, my jo. ANONYMOUS. ―――― JOHN BULL AND JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. [“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”―― _Birmingham Speech_, December 17, 1885.] Joe Chamberlain, my Jo――John Has still his word to say; Although you rate him low, John Was not born yesterday: Though acres three seem fair to men, And cows in fancy low, Yet Bulls will answer now and then, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo! There’s Radical and Radical; In that time-honoured throng Men stout and bold have battled all ’Gainst many a grievous wrong: Then think you never man on earth That sturdy name might owe, Till Birmingham brought you to birth, Jo Chamberlain, my Jo? So loud your trumpets clang and slang, That doubts John often feels, Bewildered by the “_sturm und drang_,” Which are his head and heels: For Liberal Captains staunch and true, Is he bestead so sorely, That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you, And――you, and Dilke, and Morley?