It buzzed amid the trundle beds, Ran over lairds and lasses, Went through the window, down the sheds, And waked up all the asses. It chased the hound-pups round the yard, Ran over kairn and cattle; The clans turned out with tunics barr’d, And pibrocks, armed for battle. The girl had fainted, sore dismayed, Twice had it turned her over: One lovely arm was stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. Up spake a hardy Highland wight-- (A rope was round him, ready): “Just watch me rope her hind leg tight And stop her, staunch and steady!” He threw and caught her fast and fair, It set their blood to fighting-- They saw him sailing through the air, A tail he was--and kiting! Now Ullin had a mother-in-law, A saint she was from Zion; Her lungs were rubber, cheeks were bra’, Her body--well, SCRAP iron! She waked and heard the dreadful din, Ran down, the thing to worst it; It struck her, knocked its inwards in, It wheezed and groaned--and burst it! They slew poor Laddy where he sat With blunderbuss and bullit; “’Tis not,” said Ullin, “’cause the brat Was monkeyin’ with my pullit, “But comin’ here in this vile car To run off with my darter, An’ not like neighbor Lochinvar, On hoss-flesh, as he orter.” --JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. * * * * * _Humor is a great thing, but it has never yet won a battle, built a city or bred a horse._ The Meaning of Sorrow BY REV. W. D. CAPERS, RECTOR ST. PETER’S CHURCH, COLUMBIA, TENN. “Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept Thy word.” (Ps. 119: 67.)