The lawyer's skelfs, and printer's presses,
Grain unco sair wi' weighty cases;

The clark in toil his pleasure places,
To thrive bedeen;

At five-hour's bell scribes shaw their faces,
And rake their ein.

The country fock to lawyers crook,
"Ah! Weels me on your bonny buik!
"The benmost part o' my kist nook
"I'll ripe for thee,

"And willing ware my hindmost rook
"For my decree."

But Law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fock out to keep;
A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep
Fu' sleely in,

But finds the gate baith stay and steep,
Ere out he win.

ODE TO THE BEE.

HERDS, blythsome tune your canty reeds,
An' welcome to the gowany meads

The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang,
Unfald ilk buss and ilka brier,
The bounties o' the gleesome year,

To him whase voice delights the spring,
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.

The trees in simmer-cleething drest, The hillocks in their greenest vest.

The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see,
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee,
Blythly to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts of spring.

Whan fields ha'e got their dewy gift,
And dawnin breaks upo' the lift,
Then gang ye're wa's thro' hight and how,
Seek cauler haugh or sunny know,
Or ivy'd craig or burnbank brae,
Whare industry shall bid ye gae,
For hiney or for waxen store,
To ding sad poortith frae your door.
Cou'd feckless creature, man, be wise,

The simmer o' his life to prize,

In winter he might fend fu' bald,
His eild unkend to nippin cald,

Yet thir, alas! are antrin fock

That lade their scape wi' winter stock.
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour
Upo' the ailings of the poor,

Wha hope for nae comforting, save
That dowie dismal house, the grave.

Then feeble man, be wise, take tent
How industry can fetch content,

Behad the bees whare'er they wing,
Or thro' the bonny bow'rs of spring,
Whare vi'lets or whare roses blaw,
And siller dew-draps nightly fa',
Or whan on open bent they're seen,
On heather-bell or thristle green;
The hiney's still as sweet that flows
Frae thristle cald or kendling rose.

Frae this the human race may learn
Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn,

Whether they tramp life's thorny way,
Or through the sunny vineyard stray.
Instructive bee! attend me still,
O'er a' my labours sey your skill:
For thee shall hiney-suckles rise,
With lading to your busy thighs,
And ilka shrub surround my cell,
Whareon ye like to hum and dwell:
My trees in bourachs o'er my ground
Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind;
Nor e'er shall herd, wi' ruthless spike,
Delve out the treasures frae your bike,
But in my fence be safe, and free
To live, and work, and sing like me.

Like thee, by fancy wing'd, the Muse
Scuds ear' and heartsome o'er the dews,
Fu' vogie, and fu' blyth to crap
The winsome flow'rs frae Nature's lap
Twining her living garlands there,
That lyart time can ne'er impair.

THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Et multo in primis hilarans convivia Baccho,
Ante focum, si frigus erit, [si messis, in umbra,
Vina novum fundum calateris Ariusia nectar.]
VIRGIL. BUC: [v. 39-71.) 1

2

WHAN gloming grey out o'er the welkin keeks,

Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre,

1 And chiefly enlivening the feast with plenty of the joys of Bacchus, before the fire [ingle], if it be cold [winter], if harvest [reaping-time], in the shade, I will pour thee forth Chian wines luscious as nectar.-Trans. 2 The second stanza of Burns's' Cotter's Saturday Night,' it will be seen, bears a considerable resemblance, in thought and expression, to the opening of the 'Farmer's Ingle.

Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,
And lusty lasses at the dighting tire:
What bangs fu' leal the e'enings coming cauld,
And gars snaw-tapit winter freeze in vain :
Gars dowie mortals look baith blyth and bauld,
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divets theekit frae the weet and drift,
Sods, peats, and heath'ry trufs the chimley fill,

And gar their thick'ning smeek salute the lift;
The gudeman, new come hame, is blyth to find,
Whan he out o'er the halland flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind,

That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean;
For cleanly house looes he, tho' e'er sae mean.

Weel kens the gudewife that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, and refreshing synd

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend.

With reference to the word 'gloming' or 'gloamin,' it is certainly a very picturesque and mellifluous one. Byron appends an interesting note concerning it, to his Elegy on Newstead Abbey,' into which he had thus introduced it,

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade.

Stanza ix.

"As 'gloaming,' the Scottish word for twilight," says he, "is far more poetical and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony."

O' nappy liquor, o'er a bleezing fire:

Sair wark and poortith douna weel be join'd.
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks,

I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams;
The readied kail stand by the chimley cheeks,
And had the riggin het wi' welcome steams,
Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer seems.

Frae this lat gentler gabs a lesson lear;

Wad they to labouring lend an eidant hand,
They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare,
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand.
Fu' hale and healthy wad they pass the day,

At night in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound,
Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,

Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound,
Till death slip sleely on, and gi'e the hindmost wound.

On sicken food has mony a doughty deed
By Caledonia's ancestors been done;
By this did mony wight fu' weirlike bleed

In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun:
'Twas this that brac'd their gardies, stiff and strang,
That bent the deidly yew in antient days,

Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang,
Gar'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays;
For near our crest their heads they doughtna raise.1

1 CALEDONIA loq.

The Gothes, the Danes, the Saxons here did feele,

And Normanes fierce, the fury of my steele ;
Here Cæsar pitcht his tent, and proudly thought
His trophees o're our tombes to Rome have brought,
But all in vaine: his conquering hand was stayed,
And by his troupes a wall dividing layed

At Caron's bankes.

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHOrnden.

Mait. Club. Ed.

p. 283.