We hail thi approach wi' palm-spangled banners; The plant an' the saplin' await thi command; An' Natur herseln, to show her good manners, Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land.

Tha appears in t' orchard, in t' garden, an' t' grotto, Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn; Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, For thi meanest o' subjects tha nivver did scorn.

O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin'!

These words they are borne on the wings o' the wind; That bids us be early i' plewin' an' sowin', Fer him at neglects, tha'll leave him behind.

Address ta t' First Wesherwoman.

I' sooth shoo wor a reeal G.o.d-send, Ta t' human race the greatest friend, An' liv'd, no daht, at t'other end O' history.

Her name is nah, yah may depend, A mystery.

But sprang shoo up fra royal blood, Or some poor slave beyond the Flood, Mi blessing on the sooap an' sud Shoo did invent; Her name sall renk ameng the good, If aw get sent.

If n.o.bbut in a rainy dub, Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub, Or hed a proper weshin' tub- It's all the same; Aw'd give a crahn, if aw'd to sub, To get her name.

I' this wide world aw'm set afloat, Th' poor regg'd possessor of one coat; Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote, An' thus a.s.sert, Tha'rt worthy o' great Shakespeare's note- A clean lin' shirt.

Low is mi lot, an' hard mi ways, While paddlin' thro' life's stormy days; Yet aw will sing t'owd la.s.s's praise, Wi' famous glee; Tho' rude an' rough sud be mi lays, Shoo's t'la.s.s for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair, Their rosy cheeks an' auburn hair; The dying lover's deep despair, Their harps hev rung; But useful wimmin's songs are rare, An' seldom sung.

In a Pleasant Little Valley.

In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr, Where the laddies they are honest, and the la.s.sies they are fair; Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly through the wood, And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood; 'Twas there, in all her splendour, on a January morn, Appeared old Coila's genius-when Robert Burns was born.

Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone, And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon; A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow, She was the darling native muse of Scotia then, as now: So grand old Coila's genius on this January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She vowed she ne'er would leave him till he sung old Scotia's plains- The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains; And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes: And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays, And sing how Coila's genius, on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home, Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome; But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among, And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song; This old Coila's genius did that January morn, Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

And in the nights of winter, when stormy winds do roar, And the fierce dashing waves are heard on Ayr's old craggy sh.o.r.e, The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire, Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre; And sing how Coila's genius on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

John o'f' Bog an' Keighley Feffy Goast: A TALE O' POVERTY

"Some books are lies fra end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd; But this that I am gaun to tell, * * * Lately on a night befel."-BURNS.

'Twor twelve o'clock wun winter's neet, Net far fra Kersmas time, When I met wee this Feffy Goast, The subject of mi rhyme.

I'd been hard up fer monny a week, Mi way I cuddant see, Fer trade an' commerce wor as bad As ivver they could be.

T'poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An' t'combers wor quite sick, Fer weeks they nivver pool'd a slip, Ner t'weivers wave a pick.

An' I belong'd ta t'latter lot, An' them wor t'war o't' two, Fer I'd nine pair o' jaws i' t'haase, An nowt for 'em ta do.

T'owd wife at t' time wor sick i' bed, An' I'd a shockin' cowd, Wal t'youngest barn we hed at home, Wor n.o.bbut three days owd.

Distracted to mi varry heart, At sitch a bitter cup, An' lippenin' ivvery day at com, At summat wod turn up;

At last I started off wun neet, To see what I could mak; Determin'd I'd hev summat ta eit, Or else I'd noan go back.

Through t'Skantraps an' be t' Bracken Benk, I tuke wi' all mi meet; Be t' Wire Mill an' Ingrow Loin, Reight into t' oppen street.

Saint John's Church spire then I saw, An' I wor rare an' fain, Fer near it stood t'owd parsonage- I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went ta t' Wicket Gate, Though sad I am ta say it, Resolv'd to ax 'em for some breead, Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shackin' it, A form raase up before, An' sed "What does ta want, tha knave, Shackin' t' Wicket Door?"

He gav me then ta understand, If I hedant come to pray, At t'grace o' G.o.d an' t'breead o' life, Wor all they gav away.

It's fearful nice fer folk ta talk Abaat ther breead o' life, An' specially when they've plenty, Fer t'childer an' ther wife.

Bud I set off ageean at t'run, Fer I weel understood, If I gat owt fra that thear clahn, It woddant do ma good.

I' travellin' on I thowt I heeard, As I went nearer t'tahn, A thaasand voices i' mi ears, Sayin' "John, whear are ta bahn?"

In ivvery grocer's shop I pa.s.s'd, A play-card I could see, I' t'biggest type at e'er wod print- "There's nowt here, lad, fer thee."

Wal ivvery butcher's shop I pa.s.s'd, Asteead o' meit wor seen, A mighty carvin'-knife hung up, Reight fair afore mi een.

Destruction wor invitin' me, I saw it fearful clear, Fer ivvery druggist window sed- "Real poison is sold here."

At last I gav a frantic howl, A shaat o' dreead despair, I seized missen by t'toppin then, An' shack'd an' lugged mi hair.

Then quick as leetnin' ivver wor, A thowt com i' mi heead- I'd tak a walk to t'Simetry, An' meditate wi' t'deead.

T'owd Church clock wor striking' t' time At folk sud be asleep, Save t'Bobbies at wor on ther beat, An' t'Pindar after t'sheep.

Wi' lengthen'd pace I hasten'd off At summat like a trot; Ta get ta t'place I started for, Mi blood wor boiling hot.

An' what I saw at Lack.o.c.k Gate, Rear'd up ageean a post, I cuddant tell-but yet I thowt It wor another goast!

But whether it wor a goast or net, I heddant time ta luke, Fer I wor takken bi surprise When turning t'Sharman's Nuke.

Abaat two hunderd yards i' t'front, As near as I could think, I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise, An' nah an' then a clink!

Whativver can these noises be?

Some robbers, then I thowt!- I'd better step aside an' see, They're happen up ta nowt!