From _Finis_. ―――― ON SCOTCH PATRIOTISM. Breathes there a Scot with soul so dead, Who never to himself has said Farewell for aye, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As he his willing steps hath turned To wander on a foreign strand! Who has not with a spirit gay From his loved Scotia trudged away To join the fortune-hunting band! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no canny raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, He is an idiot all the same. No pupil apt of Gaelic school, He is a patriotic fool, A simple and un-Scottish clown Who, living, forfeits fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unsnuffed, unwhiskied, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Thou did’st not suit the Scottish child! Thy lovely scenery but tells On those brave Scots who keep hotels; Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor, Are only dear to those who tour. Land of my sires! what mortal hand Could e’er invite me to thy strand? Still, as I view each well-known scene, I think of what things might have been And shudder as I think once more That I might ne’er have left thy shore. Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth, That I so early went down South. O. P. Q. P. SMIFF. _The Figaro_, August 1, 1874. ―――― PILOSAGINE. Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, “To have moustaches would be grand.” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As o’er the paper he hath turned And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned? If such there be, go, mark him well, And in his ears the good news tell: Pilosagine has gained a name, All who have tried it own its fame: While thousands prove its great renown By the moustaches they have grown; Whiskers and beards on many a face Their origin likewise to it trace, It contains no oil, is free from grease, And now forsooth our rhyme must cease. But what, you ask, is the expense? ’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence. OLD ADVERTISEMENT. ―――― Lives there a man with soul so dead, Who never to his wife has said, “I love a bit of home-made bread!” Or can a man of aught be prouder, Than to have cried in tones still louder, “I like it made with Borwick’s Powder!” ―――― SPECIMEN OF SMIFF’S LITERARY ADVERTISEMENTS. _The Poetic Style._