THE BOTTLE OF WHISKY.

"Truth," it is said, "lies at the bottom of a well." I think it rather lies at the bottom of a bottle of whisky.

"He must drink no wine who would know the thoughts of others, or hide his own. But why preach to thee who hast a thirst as eternal as a sandbank in Arabia? fare thee well."-Quentin Durward.

ARD by the road at Seggie Hill,

HARI

A house was biggin'-near the still,
Whare dorbies gaed to try their skill

On stanes an' Time;

And Jamie Spence, wha loved a gill,
Potched up the lime.

At breakfast hour, a pawky chiel'
Wha liked a dram amaist as weel,
Slipped cannie owre to Robbie Steele
To weet his throttle;

Rab for his cousin's drouth could feel,
And gae'm a bottle.

Rab, bein' the cooper at the still,
Could gie a quart as weel's a gill,
An auld beer-bottle filled wi' skill
Was never missed,

Then snooved the dorby up the hill
To hide his best.

Close by the lime, anang the sand,
He slyly slipped it frae his hand;
But faith the bottle Jamie fand,
An' took a drap ;

Syne frae its hidin'-place, trepanned
The precious sap!

He clapped it carefu' in his pail
And toddled down ahint the rail:

This time, i' faith! he was nae snail
At fetchin' water;

In truth, that day the lime did sail
As on the batter.

At dinner-time, our drouthy frien'
Wi' smackin' lips came owre the green-
The nest was flown! the bottle gaen!

He cursed like mad!

And thus, wi' vengeance in his een,
Addressed the squad:

"Which thief an' rogue has been sae base
As rob a frien' before his face-
It is a shame, and damned disgrace
To play sic pliskie !

Whaever did it,-quick-replace
My best, proof whisky."

On being tauld how matters stood,
Each swore by a' that's great an' guid,
An' hoped they'd never mair taste food
If lees they'd tell,

E'en Jamie lisped an' swore "It would
Speak for itsel'."

And faith! it did speak, ere 'twas lang.
For, though puir Jamie roared an' sang,
He never dreamed it was sae strang,
Nor yet sae bauld—

Till he could neither stand nor gang,
But lay an' sprawled.

His service missed, they looked around,
And spied him scramblin' on the ground;
The half-toom bottle also found,

Soon tauld its tale,

"Truth will come to light, murder cannot be hid long,

A man's son may; but, in the end, truth will out."-Shakespeare.

THE BLACK CLOAK.

"The love of dress, quite to excess

Is carried in our day

We must be fine, though ne'er a coin

We have to pay our way.

The finest skin is mostly seen

On creatures the most dire,

Their vileness lies concealed from eyes,-

But, touch them-and expire.

And dress first came to cover shame

A sore and sorry sign

Of man's sad fall-his ruin's pall,

And not a mark Divine !"--People's Journal.

"How often have I told thee, when thou wert at the gayest and the lightest, that pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall? Vanity brought folly, and folly brought sin, and sin hath brought death, his original companion."-John Christie, in "The Fortunes of Nigel."

NCE, in a town,-not very far from this,

ONCE

A careful man led home a blooming Miss,---
The Honeymoon was sweet-as all such are!
(Unless the rose be plucked ere Hymen's star);
They lived together, happy, Man and Wife,—
Quite free from children, and as free from strife,
She loved her husband, but she loved her dress;
Her house was neat, and clean, to an excess;
She hated snow, and dust, and wind, and rain,
Because her clean door-step they'd soil or stain.
To such extent she carried this-her dream,
That he, poor devil! seemed to tread by steam,
Afraid to stain-or even touch her floor,
He gulped his meals, then bounded to the door;
He lived unhappy, comfortless, though clean,
And fast his Love was turned to bitter spleen.
One night, when sitting by their clean fireside,
"Dear John," said she, "Why will you call it pride?
Yon velvet cloak will set your wife as well
As her next door who casts so great a swell;
Its raven hue, and glossy silken pile
Will last for many years-nay, never smile,
I'm sure there's not a wife in all the town
Takes better care of bonnet, cloak, or gown;

And then," quoth she, with face quite red with passion,
"As well be dead, John, as not in the fashion!
'Twill only cost, I'm sure, not quite five pounds."
John next upspringing, with an oath cries, "Zounds!
You'll drive me mad! I've told you so before-
That cursed cloak!" then vanished through the door.
For long, this cloak was cause of endless strife,
And she, poor woman, deemed an injured wife;
At length, a fever with its silent power

Cut short her vain, her brief, self-troubled hour;
And, when her clay was in its coffin laid,
With heavy sigh, at last John quaintly said,
"You often wished a 'Black Cloak' in your pride,
You've got one now-both syde and wide."

I have penned the above fragment as I believe the domestic felicity of many a fireside is invaded and poisoned by an over punctilio in regard to housecleaning matters, and a frivolous vanity and an excessive pride in regard to dress, thereby keeping a husband in continual hot water; while more substantial and important matrimonial interests are allowed to wither and die by this constant watering of nettles in a tea-pot. Robert Burns says truly in his "Twa Dogs" :

"Human bodies are sic fools,

For a their colleges an' schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them
They mak enow themsels to vex them,
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them."

Of course there is no intention to undervalue cleanliness, nor a becoming care and attention to dress, far from it; but anything so overdone is from the purposes both of marriage and life.

"Why should a man whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish?"-So says William Shakespeare.

A BARBER'S EPITAPH.

HERE lies the body of barber John,
Who used the razor, and the hone―
Where he is gone-no one can tell,-
Perhaps to shave Old Nick in Hell!

Bacon, I think, says "Laws are like cobwebs, the weak are caught, the strong break through and escape." The sleeve of this truism may be seen even in our Sheriff Courts, where the most subtle, or brazen-faced generally come off victorious; and where oaths are swallowed with as little compunction as Luckie Simpson's cow had when she swallowed up Luckie Jamieson's browst of ale; but, in case this may not be understood, I may state, that in "Redgauntlet" Sir Walter Scott says it was decided in a case before the town bailies of Coupar-Angus, when Luckie Simpson's cow had drunk up Luckie Jamieson's browst of ale, while it stood at the door to cool, that there was no damage to pay, because the crummie drank without sitting down; such being the very circumstance constituting Doch-an-dorrach, which is a standing drink, for which no reckoning is paid." So likewise, if an account (however just) lies over three years, it is "proscribed," and if the debtor will only have the sang froid to stand up like Luckie Simpson's crummie, and swallow the statutory oath, he or she receives a sort of mental Doch-an-dorrach, and is rid of the debt altogether. Yet, as Shakespeare says, "If they have defeated the law, and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God." Therefore as he also says in the first part of Henry IV.

"Tell truth and shame the devil,

If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,
And I'll be sworn, I have power to shame him hence,
O! while you live tell truth and shame the devil."

THE

HE court day has come, the Sheriff so glum
He takes his place in the hall,-
With looks so demure, he pities the poor

Blockheads who come there at all-
Unless, being there, they falsely can swear,
Or, glibly wag with their tongue;

The knave who talks best, contented may rest,
For "decree" on him is flung.

The asses who stare, and seek justice there,
Were never more truly wrong,—

As well, faith! expect policemen detect
A robber in danger's throng,-

Or husband bemoan a drunken wife's groan,

Who parts with all that will sell,

And beggars his home-for whisky, would roam
With Satan, drink even-in Hell!

The cases he calls-the officer bawls,
The echo resounds through all;

A tradesman stands there with bitch of a Fair,
In mock mourning hood and shawl,

He sues her for cash-the blockhead so rash!
Expecting her debt she'll own;

The debt is "proscribed," blind Justice is bribed,
For, at him, her oath is thrown.