It's a different thing that I demand, Tho' humble as can be- A statement fair in my Maker's hand To a gentleman like me:

A clear account writ fair an' broad, An' a plain apologie; Or the deevil a ceevil word to G.o.d From a gentleman like me.

X-THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLa.s.s DINNER CLUB

DEAR Thamson cla.s.s, whaure'er I gang It aye comes ower me wi' a spang: "_Lordsake_! _they Thamson lads_-(_deil hang_ _Or else Lord mend them_!)- _An' that wanchancy annual sang_ _I ne'er can send them_!"

Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke, My conscience girrs ahint the d.y.k.e; Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke To find a rhyme t' ye; Pleased-although mebbe no pleased-like- To gie my time t'ye.

"_Weel_," an' says you, wi' heavin' breist, "_Sae far_, _sae guid_, _but what's the neist_?

_Yearly we gaither to the feast_, _A' hopefu' men_- _Yearly we skelloch_ '_Hang the beast_- _Nae sang again_!'"

My lads, an' what am I to say?

Ye shurely 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 used 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 tunes 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' G.o.d's religion in a' lands Is deid an' rotten.

While thus the lave o' mankind's lost, O' Scotland still G.o.d 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, unfaithfu', 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.

O _punctum temporis_ for action To a' o' the reformin' faction, If yet, by ony act or paction, Thocht, word, or sermon, This dark an' d.a.m.nable transaction Micht yet determine!

For see-as Doctor Begg explains- Hoo easy 't's dune! a pickle weans, Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes By his instruction, The uncovenant.i.t, pent.i.t panes Ding to destruction.

Up, Niven, or ower late-an' dash Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash; Let spires and pews wi' gran' stramash Thegether fa'; The rumlin' kist o' whustles smash In pieces sma'.

Noo choose ye out a walie hammer; About the knott.i.t b.u.t.tress clam'er; Alang the steep roof stoyt an' stammer, A gate mis-chancy; On the aul' spire, the bells' hie cha'mer, Dance your bit dancie.

Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an' ruin, Wi' carnal stanes the square bestrewin', Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin, Frae h.e.l.l to Heeven, Tell the guid wark that baith are doin'- Baith Begg an' Niven.

XII-THE SCOTSMAN'S RETURN FROM ABROAD

In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone.

IN mony a foreign pairt I've been, An' mony an unco ferlie seen, Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I Last walkit upon c.o.c.klerye.

Wi' gleg, observant een, I pa.s.s't By sea an' land, through East an' Wast, And still in ilka age an' station Saw naething but abomination.

In thir uncovenant.i.t lands The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands

At lack of a' sectarian fush'n, An' cauld religious dest.i.tution.

He rins, puir man, frae place to place, Tries a' their graceless means o' grace, Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk- This yin a stot an' thon a stirk- A bletherin' clan, no warth a preen, As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen!

At last, across the weary faem, Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.

On ilka side o' me I fand Fresh tokens o' my native land.

Wi' whatna joy I hailed them a'- The hilltaps standin' raw by raw, The public house, the Hielan' birks, And a' the bonny U.P. kirks!

But maistly thee, the bluid o' Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to John o' Grots, The king o' drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!

For after years wi' a pockmantie Frae Zanzibar to Alicante, In mony a fash and sair affliction I gie't as my sincere conviction- Of a' their foreign tricks an' pliskies, I maist abominate their whiskies.

Nae doot, themsel's, they ken it weel, An' wi' a hash o' leemon peel, And ice an' siccan filth, they ettle The stawsome kind o' goo to settle; Sic wersh apothecary's broos wi'

As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo's wi'.

An', man, I was a blithe hame-comer Whan first I syndit out my rummer.

Ye should hae seen me then, wi' care The less important pairts prepare; Syne, weel content.i.t wi' it a', Pour in the sperrits wi' a jaw!

I didnae drink, I didnae speak,- I only snowkit up the reek.

I was sae pleased therein to paidle, I sat an' plowtered wi' my ladle.

An' blithe was I, the morrow's morn, To daunder through the stookit corn, And after a' my strange mishanters, Sit doun amang my ain dissenters.

An', man, it was a joy to me The pu'pit an' the pews to see, The pennies dirlin' in the plate, The elders lookin' on in state; An' 'mang the first, as it befell, Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel'

I was, and I will no deny it, At the first gliff a hantle tryit To see yoursel' in sic a station- It seemed a doubtfu' dispensation.

The feelin' was a mere digression; For shune I understood the session, An' mindin' Aiken an' M'Neil, I wondered they had dune sae weel.

I saw I had mysel' to blame; For had I but remained at hame, Aiblins-though no ava' deservin' 't- They micht hae named your humble servant.

The kirk was filled, the door was steeked; Up to the pu'pit ance I keeked; I was mair pleased than I can tell- It was the minister himsel'!

Proud, proud was I to see his face, After sae lang awa' frae grace.