THE WEARY BIT LASSIE.

OH, 'tis a strange contrast in life's social plan,
Sad sign o' the fall an' perversion of man,

Which causes to be the unfortunate law

That some folks should be needy while others are braw.

You weary bit lassie gaes ploddin' the streets,
Unheeded, alas, by the crowd which she meets,
Upon a sma' errand, or frae her cauld hame,
The big busy world never heard of her name.

Frae daylight till even she toils in the slum,

An' there she maun be a' weathers that come;

'Mid the keen frosts o' winter she needs her scant meals

As weel as when simmer her beauty reveals.

At winding, or folding, or stitching, or so,
Her fingers by stern necessities go,

For all which—it brings the hot flush to my cheek—

She gets but a poor three an' sixpence a week.

Nae wonder her claes are a' shabby genteel,
And often her boots gie sair doon at the heel.
Three an' sixpence a week, or say five at the most!
While wealth's aye the sang o' her countrymen's boast.

I've seen her gaun hame mid the weet an' the storm, I've heard the winds whistle around her wee form, I've wondered if faither or mither were deid,

An' where at the last she would lay doon her heid.

Sa on she wud trudge, while drive past by her side,
Her weel-favour'd sisters in comfort an' pride;
Unnoticed, uncared for, to evil a prey,

The roond o' her days slip fu' dreary away.

For 'tis a strange contrast in life's social plan,
Sad sign o' the fall an' perversion of man,

Which causes to be the unfortunate law

That some folks should be needy while others are braw.

VERSES ON A VISIT TO A.B.T., IN 1862.

O MEMORY, lang thy gude help gie,
To keep aye fresh in my mind's e'e
Till the verra hoor when I may dee,
Be't prime or dotage;

The days sa blythely spent by me
At White Moss Cottage.

'Twas by a hearty invitation
Fra' a true son o' Scotland's nation,

Ane wi' the speerit o' reformation
O' bald John Knox,

Wha fearlessly mak's declaration

Ta English folks.

Weel, on the day I was expeckit,
I had na reason to neglec' it,

As I wi' naething was conneckit
On sic a day;

An tho' in a dub was nearly wreckit,

I gat my way.

Up ower the park, an' bye the moor,
I skelpit on wi' a' my poor,

An' thro' the yett I gade like stoor,
Sa glad in mind—

Ta meet upon my English toor
A friend sa kind.

O wha then, think ye, did me greet
But ane o' England's roses sweet;
Wha' shew'd me in ta tak' a seat,
An' ease my shanks;

An' wi' sic grace gar'd me repeat
My gratefu' thanks.

O bricht, bricht, was her dark blue e'e, As she that welcome gae ta' me;

E'en yet. I sometimes think I see

That sunny smile;

Tho', bonny lassie, far fra' thee
I'm mony a mile.

I thocht my greetin's a' were past
When the gude-wife cam in at last;
But stay, man-dinna be sa fast,
There's ither twa:

An' saintlier lassies east or wast

Ye never saw.

The tane I think had raven hair,
A brow the sna' is scarce sa fair,
An' e'e wad drive ane ta despair,
Sa black an' bright;

She tauld me o' a sang, that's mair,
Whilk I did write.

The tither gouden ringlets wore,
Like her I spak aboot afore,

I could ha' stayed a month an' more

Ta hear her sing;

O' sangs she sweetly sung a score,
Like birds in Spring.

In fact the family ane an' a',
Were a' sa winsome an' sa bra',

I couldna tell whilk ane ava'

I likit best;

The chap wha made the "Sparrows fa","

As weel's the rest.

Again wi' mony a merry sang,

When we were no wi' crackin' thrang,

The cosy cot approvin' rang;

Sa pass'd the day.

The time drew on, an't seem'd na lang

Ta gang away.