English

Afflicted one! to Christ draw near;
Thy Savior's gracious promise hear;
His faithful word declares to thee,
That, " as thy days, thy strength shall be. "

Let not thy heart despond, and say, —
How shall I stand the trying day?
He has engag'd by firm decree,
That " as thy days, thy strength shall be. "

Thy faith is weak, thy foes are strong;
But though the conflict should be long,
Thy Lord will make the tempter flee;
For, " as thy days, thy strength shall be. "

Should persecution rage and flame,

A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword!
For the world is all to win.
Though the way be hard and the door be barred
The strong man enters in.
If Chance or Fate still hold the gate
Give me the iron key,
And turret high, my plume shall fly
Or you may weep for me!

A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse
To bear me out afar,
Where blackest need and grimmest deed,
And sweetest perils are.
Hold thou my ways from glutted days,
Where poisoned leisure lies,
And point the path of tears and wrath

'Tis sweet, though in affliction's path,
Thy ways to learn, O Lord!
Resign'd, through darkest days of wrath,
To wait thy sure award.

For thou wilt not thine own forsake,
Nor cast away thy saints;
The throne of judgment thou wilt take,
And banish their complaints.

Canst thou with vile oppressors dwell,
Who legalize their guilt?
The helpless sons of want they sell;
And, ah! what blood they've spilt!

Thou, Lord! wilt make thy dreadful wrath
On their own heads rebound;

Where from one point the branching ways divide,
The village-shop displays its tinsel pride.
Bright beams the window with the gaudy show,
Drest in each colour of the splendid bow:
Small rolls of tape with dex'trous skill arrang'd,
Each coil diminish'd, and each colour chang'd,
Red, blue, and crimson, are alternate seen,
'Till ends the pyramid in sprightly green.

Gay with japan, snuff boxes stand array'd,
With golden mottos for each love-sick maid,
Whose gaudy glare still captivate the eye,

Dear Mam, to your friendship I beg to commend,
O'Dwyer my kins-man, and Going my friend;
Two wights true and trusty as ever went forth,
To grace the gay banquet, or plead in a court.

One fam'd for the joke and the fly repartee,
Not Yorick himself more facetious than he;
In fancy and fun so complete is his knack,
That he'd tip a good pun if a cork did but smack;
A conserve of humour all palates to hit,
Yet a friend never blush'd by the flash of his wit.

The other deep read in mankind's wily ways,

Who's that walking on the moorland?
Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who's that calling on the moorland?
Who's that crying on the hill?
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who's that running on the moorland?
Who's that flying on the hill?
He is there — and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
And the Heretics said from the platter.
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
Not one of them thought of a cow.

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
And oh! but he wounded her sore.
" Hey, Love, you couldn't mean that!
Hi, Love, what would you be at? "
No word would he say,

The slyding tyme so slilie slips away,
It reaves from us remembrance of our state;
And, quhill we do the cair of tyme delay,
We tyne the tyde, and so lament to lait.
Then, to eschew such dangerous debait,
Prepone sor patrene manlie M AITLAND knycht.
Leirne be HIS lyf to leive in sembil raite,
With luif to God, Religion, Law, and Rycht.
For as HE was of vertu lucent lycht;
Of ancient bluid, of nobil spreit and name;
Belov'd of God, and everie gracious wycht;
So died HE auld, deserving worthie fame.

In the Name of M.O.D. and the Author

Scarron, as Goldsmith tells the tale,
When his own cheer was wont to fail,
Wou'd send a card to ev'ry friend,
At four his Levee to attend.
Each guest, as suited his own taste,
Wou'd bring a dish to crown the feast.
The garnish far excell'd the meat,
The sauce from fancy's sweet retreat;
Some brought the song and merry glee,
And some the social repartee;
Good-humour took the foremost place;
And stingless jest pronounc'd the grace.
Thus from an het'rogeneous crew,