But oh! his mem'ry's sadly marred,
By selfish clubs—
Wee germs o' pride where Worth's debarred—
Puir envious cubs!
A dizzen o' these mongrels meet
To bark out sangs, and weasons weet-
Just like the snips o' Tooley Street-
To whine owre Burns!
Nae Man daur set his willing feet
Within their girns.
A cur-they "Envy" ca'-their scribe-
Or Secretary to the tribe,
To mak' Burns pure, he thought he'd bribe
Great Common Sense,
Wi' downy motive to imbibe
A mean pretence.
The pawky, willing, servile loon,
Who knew the Spirit o' the Toon,
He thocht nae shame, but quite a boon
And only needed Mess John's gown,
Great Rantin Robin's noo awa'-
Nae Tam o' Shanter mair shall fa'-
Nor Souter Johnny loudly blaw,
Bein' fou thegither,
Noo, since we've gotten John M'Craw
For Burns' brither!—
For God's sake, Poets, speak them fair,
And dinna kaim against the hair!
Or else you'll hear o' Burns nae mair-
He'll Burn the books-
The world will miss the minutes sair
O' sic guid folks!
Be sure you keep your Club select,
For fear that Burns' fame be wrecked
Upon the rocks o' Self-respect,
Nor float again—
Waes me, 'twould be a sair neglect
O' sic guid men!
Hae a' your wee bit papers ready,
Come stiff and starched frae your braw leddy.
When on your feet be-oh!-be steady-
Nor Burns disgrace!
Guid faith, I'd mount the highest woody,
Than sic a place!
Fareweel! our noble Burns' Club,
Yoursels keep pure,-ay! there's the rub,-
And never touch a dirty dub,
Like draws to like, ilk sma'-sowled cub,
To gnaw its Bane,
Or, as Job retorted on his friends, "No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you. But I have understanding as well as you, I am not inferior to you." This was strung together in consequence of the writer not having been deemed intellectual enough or respectable enough to sit amongst the so-called St. A. B. C.
UNREQUITED LOVE.
"Oh! my own life-why should a single day
A moment keep me from those arms away!"-Moore.
HAT though I called and you from home
It was to ask if you had come—
For them no kindred thoughts had I,-
Why leave a friend without good-bye?
When read-Farewell!-and burn this note,
And think as if it ne'er were wrote-
It may be wrong,-I feel 'tis right,
To hold your image to my sight.
But if my love you can't return—
Ah! do not think I mean you harm!
True Love is wayward, but as free
As billows of the chainless sea!
And ah! as Adam fondly fell
Beneath a lovely woman's spell,-
So, till from you some sign I see,
I will not-dure not think of thee!
Meanwhile be good, use well your time,
A happy lot may yet be thine ;
Be prudent, careful, and be wise,
As if the world was filled with spies.
If Love be wrong, still keep a Friend,
Knit hearts are strongest in the end;
The world is formal, cold, and mean,
Friendship, like Love, is ever green.
No more of this,—you can't be mine,
I feel I never can be thine-
No matter-still, in Love I'll trust-
Again, Farewell!—since part we must.
In memory of Captain Middleton's excellent and well-trained horse, "Bill," which broke its leg and had to be shot when nobly speeding to assist a fallen trooper, on the Links of St. Andrews, at the close of the annual week's drilling of the Fife Light Horse Cavalry Regiment, on Friday afternoon, the 16th of July 1875.
THE bugle blast, the neighing steed,
Swept o'er the Links with lightning speed;
While waving scarfs and tresses fair,
And beauty with inviting eye,
In clusters on the bent were there,
Where loyal banners streamed on high,
And many a ribbon fluttered by,
Beneath yon glorious summer sky!
Full many a winning smile, I ween,
On wings of love flew o'er the green,
As swept the wheeling Light Horse past—
With manly pride and loyal heart-
In answer to that bugle blast!
To prove they took old Scotia's part
As keen in war as harvest's mart,
For willing o'er the Links they dart !
Well may St. Andrews Links be proud
To bear such lovely, patriot crowd;
For twice upon their sward have been
The flower and chivalry of Fife,
To shadow warfare o'er their green-
By thee, the mounted wing of strife,
Who for the Queen would part with life,
Or fly to meet invasion's knife!
The mimic war was nearly done,
The course of skirmish almost run,
When, hark! a solitary shot
Rings o'er the Links with fatal speed-
And crowds attest the bloody spot
Where weltering lies yon gallant steed,
With fore leg shattered like a reed;
Ah! poor reward for help, indeed!
The noble Captain of the strife
Who drilled those gallant sons of Fife:
"Ah! could no other mark be found
Than thine, my chesnut's gleaming eye,
To stain yon treacherous, burrowed ground?
Was meaner hoof not standing by,
And sooner to the rescue fly
To save my willing steed and I?
"Like eagle struck down in its speed
Wert thou, my noble, gallant steed!
Thy duty done, you sped to aid
Yon fallen trooper's fancied harm,
When shattered like a broken blade
Thine own limb for a false aların.
No more we'll gallop down the glade;
Thy warfare's done, thy game is played-
Like carrion on the Links thou'rt laid!"
With welling eye the warrior spied
His wistful look before he died:
"Poor Bill, for many a year we've trod
Together to the bugle's blast;
But here, and thus, to stain the sod
When our duty had been nobly past!
A stumbler's victim at the last-
Thou sped to help, alas! too fast!
Another steed was brought forth soon,
Which bore yon heart-sore, brave dragoon.
But, ah! I'm sure that Middleton,
Before he'd lost his chesnut Bill,
A hundred had refused for one-
Yes! ere he got such well-tried skill
To bear him with so true good will ;--
His place no other steed can fill.
"Farewell! my noble, well-trained Bill !
I pay this tribute to thy skill:
My heart will throb for long, I ween,
When thinking on thy shattered limb
And wistful eye upon the green,
While Death stood by so cold and grim,
When mine with burning tears were dim,
And welling from my heart for him!
"The echo of that shot will ring
Upon my brain when next I sing;
That look of thine will haunt thy grave
When next I see a steed thus laid,
Because poor Bill I could not save!
My soldier's game was almost played
When he upon the bent lay dead,
For nobly galloping to aid!"
Another sad and fatal proof
That Dunger haunts the willing hoof,
And generous souls too often fall
A victim for another's ill;
For Goodness ever hears the call
Of duty, rushing with a will-
Like yon poor steed, ill-fated Bill,
The paragon of speed and skill!
The accompanying characteristic, soldier-like letter, received by the author from Captain Middleton, will show the estimation he had of his well-tried and faithful steed:
SIR, I have been away from here, which must be my excuse for not having written to thank you for the copies of your touching poem about the death of my poor old horse on the Links at St. Andrews.
Accept my best thanks for them, and I shall always keep them as a souvenir of my old favourite.-Yours faithfully, J. A. MIDDLETON, Capt.,
G. BRUCE, Esq., St. Andrews.
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