My lads, an’ what am I to say? Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way: Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke—the day, Thrawn like a cuddy: Her conduc’, that to her’s a play, Deith to a body. Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane, Aft whan I laboured burd-alane Fishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane, Or nane were fit for ye— Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky stane— No car’n’ a bit for ye! But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairn As weak as a pitaty-par’n’— Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe airn Than steerin’ crowdie— Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn, To ca’ the howdie. Wae’s me, for the puir callant than! He wambles like a poke o’ bran, An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can, Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit; Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’ Behauld him landit. Sic-like—I awn the weary fac’— Whan on my muse the gate I tak, An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ back To keek ahint her;— To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs black As blackest winter. “_Lordsake_! _we’re aff_,” thinks I, “_but whaur_? _On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur_, _Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur_, _Will she desert me_? _An’ will she just disgrace_? _or waur_— _Will she no hurt me_?” Kittle the quaere! But at least The day I’ve backed the fashious beast, While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist, Flang heels ower bonnet; An’ a’ triumphant—for your feast, Hae! there’s your sonnet! XI—EMBRO HIE KIRK THE Lord Himsel’ in former days Waled out the proper tünes for praise An’ named the proper kind o’ claes For folk to preach in: Preceese and in the chief o’ ways Important teachin’. He ordered a’ things late and air’; He ordered folk to stand at prayer, (Although I cannae just mind where He gave the warnin’,) An’ pit pomatum on their hair On Sabbath mornin’. The hale o’ life by His commands Was ordered to a body’s hands; But see! this _corpus juris_ stands By a’ forgotten; An’ God’s religion in a’ lands Is deid an’ rotten. While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost, O’ Scotland still God maks His boast— Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast A score or twa Auld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoast Still keep His law. In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain, Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retain The Truth—or did so aince—alane Of a’ men leevin’; An’ noo just twa o’ them remain— Just Begg an’ Niven. For noo, unfaithfü’, to the Lord Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde; Her human hymn-books on the board She noo displays: An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restored In popish ways.