But if I'm baffled by the digging

And "booms" be placed, to stop the swigging-
I will destroy their good intents—

And burn for gas, their remnant "Bents."

A chiel I know of Railway fame,
And up to all my little game-
Who's done me service oft before,
He shall double-bank the Oar.

And, 'twixt us, 'twill be more than strange
If they and I can't so arrange
To clip this City's right hand wing-
For she shan't fly-while I've a string!

But, hardly had deep Satan spoke,
Than Eve,-who also loved a joke,
Said, "Could you not their Church trepan
As
you and I-did my Guidman?

When he,-poor soul in Eden fell,

And doomed the Human race to Hell!-
You say 'twas through this cursed Town
That Sharpe and Beaton broke their Crown!

Can you not Religion reach,

By making parsons Nonsense preach1

Upon this Lammas Market day,

And close beside a Beershop pray?

While Fun skips past with laughing eye,
And Happiness is reeling by

To see Hypocrisy,—with lengthened face,
Hold up the Truth to such disgrace!

And as they preach and pray before
That ranting, ringing tavern door,
"Twill show the world what's often seen-
Your worship helped by Parsons keen."

The Devil laughed at such a plan
To prostitute the Mind of Man,
And swore to Eve to help her suit,

As she did his Forbidden fruit.

1 "Many pastors have destroyed my vineyard,-they have trodden my portion under foot," JEREMIAH. "As I live, saith the Lord God, the pastors fed themselves, and fed not my flock," EZEKIEL. "But I shall feed them with Knowledge, and Understanding, saith the Lord."

Yes! though 'tis humbling, yet 'tis true,
The more they prayed,-Jest louder flew,
Until that Tavern, full was crammed-
For, while they preached, the drunken damned,

Till, calm Sincerity stepped in between,-
And Education closed the scene,

But Ignorance was loathe to leave,—
While Satan laughed within his sleeve !

The Harbour too was long delayed,-
And almost tint its little trade,
The Law had to decide the case,-
He grinning on the Judge's face!

SCOTCH ACTS AND BILLS.

AULD

ULD Scotland's heart is sairly flurried, Her ancient spirit's dead and buried, Her very watch dog's almost worried,

By canting knaves,

Her Independence reached and harried
By mental slaves.

Her ain big hoose is stormed and sacked,
And England sees Auld Scotland racked,
And torn by every blockhead's Act,
And winna vote-
A shame to see your auld foe hack'd,
And killed by rote.

For justice raise your voice and yell,
And dinna let St. Stephen's bell
Toll puir Auld Scotland's deein' knell,
By Scottish fools,-

Gie her the laws ye hae yoursel,

Guid wheat or hools!

Faith!-ne'er believe that Scotland bears
In peace o' mind their bunglin shears,—
Each sneck is bringin doon the tears,

In sad dismay;

Mackenzie's Acts and Lord Kinnear's
Are curs'd each day!

Oor forty-five were better dead,
Or hame to Scotland sent wi' speed,-
For deil a ane o' them gies heed
To Scotland's ills,

We'll rather trust to England's aid,
Than damned Scotch Bills!

Puir Scotland's spirits noo are gone,
Her nationality has flown,

Her very bagpipe's lost its tone,

Wi' mountain dew,—

But yet, she's pleased, if let alone,
To fare wi' you.

Yet, pit her kilted in the field,
Wi' tartan plaid, and rifle steel'd,
She'd let you see she has a shield

To England's blade:

Then, wherefore see puir Scotland peel'd,
And no gie 'r aid?

'Tis neither just, nor wise i' faith,
To mak distinction 'twixt us baith,
And see Auld Scotland torn to skaith-
By some weak souls,

Wha think they see the devil's wraith
In toddy bowls!

As soon's the English cross the Tweed,
They find themsel's frae hame indeed,
And stare to see sic slavish creed,

By Scotchmen borne,

And wonder what made Wallace bleed,
For folk sae lorn.

They're fooled and cheated o' their gill,
The price is doobled 'gainst their will,
And schemes are laid to close the Still,-
Or tax 't still mair,

And daurna drink by Forbes' bill,-
The Templar's prayer.

-

'Tis plain that what you maist restrict,
Like close squeezed bees, will stangs inflict,-
And even Vice will interdict,

And spurn mere force

For Parliament will ne'er direct

A stappin horse.

Save frae her freends! is Scotland's
And let her aye wi' England share;
She'll trust hersel to Southern care,
Before sic freends,

prayer,

She's haen enough o' cant and prayer,

'Neath Tithes and Teinds!

THE SNEAK.

"The very Vulture turns away,

And sickens at so foul a prey."--Moore.

YON cunning sneak, who looks sae sly—

Nae wonder that he's Rich aye,

For Honour never found a place
To settle on his weasel face!

As weel expect in Hell a grace—
Or tortoise win from hare a race,-
Or oyster owre his house to fly
Than he should ever reach the sky!

Yes! Truth and Honesty in Hell,
And Satan back, from whence he fell,—
Than yon Rich excrement of Man
Be found in Heaven, to mar its plan!

Void of Honour, Sense, or Shame,
He plays his sleekit winning game!
And gets his work for nothing, done,
The pawky, smiling-cunning loon!

The Sneak takes three for Honour's one,
And never ends what is begun,-

But, stop, my Muse!-you're far frae hame,
For such a Subject dirties Fame!

THE WIFE.

"You will get a good wife, if you seek for nothing but a good wife." -Shakespeare.

FOND partner of Life's Joys, Man's balm for pain—

His better self-to thee my harp I string

But ah! to tune it right I know is vain,
And still more vain, find fitting words to sing.

Thou sacred fountain of Domestic Love,

The cheerful sun which cheers the humblest home,-
Thou Nature's gift, sent down from Heaven above
To help two souls to melt, with Love, in One.

Thou origin of Weal as well as Woe

The root, from which the mental saplings spring

The fount and spring from which Life's rivers flow,
And early Pruner of Youth's callow wing.

It is the Mother trains the embryo mind,

And Man retains the bent thus early given,

But ah! the subtle Levite tried to bind

The hand with Fear,-lest Truth should soar to Heaven!

'Tis then her sterner helpmate steps between,
And trains the branches for their native sky,
With perfect confidence in God-I ween,
Who yet shall prove Idolatry-on creeds,—a lie!

Let formal worship blunt not Hope's young years
By dread of something greater than their God,
On Him alone teach Youth to rest its fears-
Nor often use the harsh,-unfeeling rod.

The budding Mind-Ah! train to cling to Truth,
To worship it-and break the web of Vice,
Unawed by Rites, which cloud the sun of youth
Until the Man is lost in Avarice.

Cold Ritual and Formality,-despise!
But God, and Truth, in spirit, ah! revere-
Each day-each hour-with living Faith arise
And worship God, in Nature, everywhere!