While drivelling Kings to Popes did bend
In superstitious awe,

He straight to Rome his way did wend,
And plucked the vain jackdaw.

He slipped the cord, he loosed the hood,
And let his eagles soar,

Till Superstition's ancient brood
Lay sprawling in their gore.

He lighted up a torch on high,—
A torch which none can set,-
In Italy, and Hungary,

Through tears, it blazes yet!

His prototype unmasked the knave,
And earlier raised the veil,
A lasting lesson Cromwell gave,1
That tyrants aye should quail.

But, the Despot and the Tyrant's past,
They've lived their early day;
And man with man shall live at last,
In peace and harmony!

JOCKY PITBLADO.

A TRUE TALE.

DOOR Jocky's dead!--I kent him weel,
For aft he used to scaur me;

And oh, he was a queer-like chiel,
Nae deevil mair conld waur me !

I mind-when running at the school,
'Twas thocht sae noble fun,

For school-boy wild, and haflin fool,
To get him richt begun.

It is well known that Buonaparte was a close imitator of the stern decision of character which so successfully actuated Cromwell-both of them by force of arms dispersed the representatives of their different nations, and took the reins of government into their own hands.

And then, wi' oaths-unkent-and lang,
He frae his den would swagger—
Syne hurling after stanes wi' bang,
He after them would stagger.

A tale is told o' deevilish loons,
Wha frichtened Jocky sair-
A shop below wi' weaver's looms,
While Jocky lived up-stair.

A "neep" they got and howkit thin,
Syne cut out mouth and een;
A lichted candle clapt within-
Made Warlock's head, I ween.

The broken floor they shoved aside,
When dark, and Jocky snorin',
Then on a pole at his bedside,
Its goggle een were starin'.

They rattled, roared, and thumpit sair,
Till Jocky wide was waukin'-
Then a' the yells-nae bedlam mair !-
He on the floor fell quakin'.

He lived that time in "Dickie's" Lane,
Beneath his Faither's rigging,
They lived together-butt an' ben-
Or maybe in ae bigging.

His Faither kept him aye fell richt,

Though aft would Jocky roose him;

But Death closed owre the auld man's sicht,
Then strangers next did "hoose" him.

Ah! then puir Johnny kent a change-
Nae rantin', stampin', swearin',
"Out owre" the door he durstna range—
Nae mair did laddies fear him.

But, whiles would Jocky rin awa,
Richt sly, out o' their clutches,
And wandered far 'mongst rain an' snaw,
Wi' face as thin's a witch's.

Jean Mitchell's house, in Mutto's Lane,
Did prison Jock a while;

My heart's been grit wi' doonricht pain,
To see him in yon Jail !

Next, at the Shore his lot was cast,
And often hae I seen him
Gatherin' stanes an' shells-at last
His Liberty was gi'en him.

Puir thing, he wandered on the sands,
Or puddled in the dubbies;

He raised his voice, an' tossed his hands,
And often cast his duddies;

Then wandered amongst sand an' stane,
As naked's Nature made him;
He frichtened a', but meddled nane-
Nor did his form degrade him.

But next and last, his ill-starred luck
At Edenside was cast,

Where Railway train, an' Luggage truck, Close by his door ran past.

The house he lived in's owre the Brig-
The wooden Brig, I mean-

Just where a curve as bowt's a leg
Defeats the use o' een.

And as the Train the Guard-Brig left,

Puir Jocky left his door,

Then wandered on the line, bereft,
Nor heard its coming roar.

And now the murderous Engine birrs
Like Thunder owre the water;
Alas! puir Johnny's brain ne'er stirs--
Nor heard the fatal clatter.-

But now, the Guard wi' horror sees
A form upon the line-
The piercing whustle quick he gies
To start the fool in time!—

But ah! puir Jocky wasna blest
Wi' cheerful sense o' hearin'—
The Powers aboon had deemed it best
Nae Sense ava to fear him.

As deaf's a horn, as glyed's a wilk-
Nor smell ava' had he,

An' brains, puir chield, like ony stirk,
How could he Danger see?

But noo no time was to be lost,-
The whustle useless blaws,
The Drag's put on, owre late at last,-
Now Death the engine draws!-

What need I lengthen out the tale,
The wheels richt owre him goes;

The flange,-like shears cut owre the rail,
An' clipt the very clothes!

Nae neck e'er laid upon the block

Mair swift was ca'd in twa;

Nae Headsman's axe gave surer stroke,— Nae bungling sneck ava!

The pain was brief-if any felt

For Death, as kind took care o'm;
Life's pleasures niggardly were dealt,-
Death equally did spare him.

His body twain was gathered then,
With severed limbs an' a',
And to the town were brocht again;
The Grave's noo owre them a'.

If Moral in the Tale be seen,
Let's mind it-high and low,
For quite uncertain on the scene
Is human life below.

There's not a morrow-mortal man
Can truly call his own:

For Death-like Engines thunder on
To snap Life's thread in twain.

Then let us train our thoughts aright,

Our house in Order range;

That, when at last our Soul takes flight, "Twill prove a happy change!

THE LITTLE SEDGE SKIFF.

A THOUGHT.

EE, Lizzy, see! how calm and still,

SEE

The trout is sleeping 'neath the mill, As if he were afraid to rise,

And claim our wing-denuded prize,
Because that you, dear Lizz, and I,
Would treat him to a Butterfly.
How, Henry, can you thus deny
The power to soar of that poor fly?
Know you not these little things,
Love Liberty as well as kings?—
Nay, cousin, moralize no more,
But draw your sedge skiff to the shore,
While I, with Bee and hawthorn sprig,
Her crew will make, and mast will rig—
Then name the captain-" Bold Earwig!"-
Ah! happy days, and happy time—
Too happy for my humble rhyme,

For callous,-cold-I've found this world—
Nor care how soon Life's sails are furled.
Yet, not the World, but envious Man-
The good would crush-the ill would fan,
By false Religion's thousand creeds,
Which choke the Soul like Human weeds!
While God's own just and simple laws,
Are covered o'er with musty straws!