He crawls like a beast,--or a demon from hell!
And dashes the stool on the place where he fell.
He misses the floor but his blait bairnie strikes,
His favourite child, whom though drunken he likes ;
It fractured her skull, she gave one dying scream,
Alas! but that one broke for ever his dream.

He stood and he glared, as if glued to the spot-
Yes!-petrified stood, as if reason was shot;
One wild glance he gave, one bound to the door,
Next morning his body was found at the shore.

His suffering wife was already so worn
In bearing the brunt of a harsh drunkard's scorn,
As his body came in, the shriek that she gave,
Made Charity seek them in yon triple grave.

Yet, this is but one of the chain's fatal links,
That winds round the object of pity who drinks;
For no one can touch this foul pitch of the soul,
And keep his mind pure, or let reason control.
'Tis one of the vices which feeds on itself,
As Avarice hugs and still hoards up its pelf;
Or Love when 'tis jealous, the more that it fears,
Grows stronger and stronger each trifle it hears.
But still there's a balm for all our excesses,
And proves to all vice its leashes and jesses,
True faith in our God, and believing that prayer
Alone is the key to His fatherly care.

All vicious excess, whether drink or false pride,
Back-biting your neighbour, or prone to deride,
In charity dead, or, when giving your alms
You flaunt them as loud as you bray out your psalms.

All these, aye! and more of sin's haggard brood,
Will ne'er close the wing till they strike down all good;
Then lure them in time, ere they dive down the wind,
And leave Truth and Virtue to wither behind.

"Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,

But with a lingering step and slow,

Its form departs."-A translation by Longfellow.

"But faith," I think I hear some chield say, "wha are you that ventures to quarrel with my wine, which has been approved of by so many kings, princes, dukes, graves, and rhingraves, counts, barons, knights, and esquires of the empire, whose shoes you are altogether unworthy to clean?"

PUGGY KAIL.

"Is this not a rare fellow my Lord? he's as good at anything, and yet a fool." -As You Like It.

"A man so various he seemed to be

Not one,

but all mankind's epitome."

NCE in our town there lived a Wight

ONCE

A clever wight was he,

All Trades he tried that hove in sight,

Both on the land and sea;

He mended lamps, umbrellas made,
Soldered pans, cemented ware,—
In fact was jack of every trade,
And even mastered Prayer.

The trade that he loved best of all
Was stuffing,-bird or beast,

Their carcases both great and small,—
On all alike he'd feast;

He stuffed their skins hard up with tow,
Their bodies stuffed his weans,

And weel he liked a stew, I trow,
Of rabbit,-duck, and greens!

One day, when working at the shore,
His bairnies fetched his food,

And oh he licked his lips all o'er,
The rabbit was so good;

He smacked his lips and said, "Tis sweet,
Oh, what a jolly dinner!

I never had so great a treat,

No! since I was a sinner."

He laboured hard that afternoon,

And like a mavis sang,

He whistled o'er each favourite tune,

As on his coat he flang.

Arrived at home, "Dear Kate," he said,

"Yon rabbit was the best

That ere you've cooked since we were wed,"
Then smacked his lips with zest!

"Rabbit!" quoth Kate, "it wasna that,
But better beastie far,

It was the puggy, plump and fat,
And may you ne'er get waur."
"The puggy! Woman, are you mad?".
Bock! bock! upon the floor-

He spewed, he cursed, and swore 'twas bad,
What late he praised before.

The fact was this, a monkey came

To be stuffed up like life,

And honest Kate ne'er thought it shame

To be a thrifty wife;

She clapped the puggy in the pot,

And feasted weel hersel',

Its legs and arms the bairnies got,
The hurdies to him fell.

The moral here is true, indeed,
For what we do not know,
We swallow up with eager greed,
Though poison lurks below.
In truth, what oft we think is best
In our short-sighted view,
Turns often out a loathsome pest,

And proves the moral true.

The above is quite a true incident. A well-known character in St. Andrew's once got a monkey to skin and stuff up; in his absence, his wife made an excellent stew of the carcase, which he heartily enjoyed, until she told him what it was, and then, as a matter of little wonder, he vomited the whole.

"He was not like the King of Castile, who choked of thirst because the great butler was not beside to hand his cup."-Quentin Durward.

Lord Stanley truly says that " Original thinkers are rare in every time. However thick the crowd may be, there is always room for those who can pass over other men's heads."