_Hey for social science, O!_ _For genuine social science, O!_ _A summons here to recompear_ _Would find a quick compliance, O!_ This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “_Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga_,” by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877. ――――:o:―――― HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir. HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER. (Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E. G――dst――e, assisted by his G――ce the A――b――p of York.) O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell, Wha, since it pleased best thysel’, Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell, A’ for thy glory, To brew amaist as muckle ill As ony Tory. I bless and praise thy matchless might, Whan thousands left our shores to fight, Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right, And, by thy grace, We gied the Egyptian deils a fright Ower a’ the place. What was I or my ministry That we should sae exalted be? A glaikit mongrel company O’ bleth’rin’ b―――― Some three years syne――O L―――― forgie Our liein’ speeches. When frae my post aewhile I fell, I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’ Wad never mair wi’ office mell In Church or State, But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell Outlaw’d by fate. Yet here I’m i’ the highest station, To prove the power o’ thy salvation, I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation, Strong as a rock, Head maister o’ tergiversation ’Mang a’ the flock. O L――――, thou kens what zeal I bear, When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear, And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there Wi’ great and sma’, O L―――― confound them everywhere, Ilk ane an a’. But yet, O L――――, confess I must, I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust, Since me the doited fules still trust, Thro’ thick an’ thin; Sae I rave on, L――――, I’m but dust, Forgie my sin.