A friend wha had come o'er the burn,
To see what time he did return,
When John saw this the bicker fell—
He stammer'd back, but couldna tell,
What was the matter: "Oh!" he cried,
"See! look ye-that's it-father, try't-
Try, friends, if ye can get it out:

"Twill be my death, I've little doubt!"

The friend soon saw what was the matter,
And left them saying, "He'll soon get better."

John here began a lang narration

About the so-called apparition;

He tauld a sad and awfu' story,
At which nane but himsel' was sorry,
For weel they kent the muckle log
Was placed to keep folk frae the bog:
And weel they kent the licht he saw
Was Spunkie, which aye wiles awa'

The witless wight; they kent the drappy
That John had ta'en had made him nappy;-

So, faither, mither, and a' lay

Doun in their beds till dawn o' day.

THE TWA ORPHAN BAIRNIES.

I.

Oh! the twa orphan bairnies
Are begging their bread:
Their faither, an' mither,

And friends are a' dead;

And they're left here to fecht
Through the warld alane,

Since their parents awa
To a better ha'e gane.

II.

Their faither de'ed first-
He was carried awa'

To his grave; and the mither
Sat down 'mang the snaw?
She was wearied and done-

She had need o' a rest ;

And she de'ed-the twa bairnies

Were found on her breast.

She seems whiles to ken

That she wants a kind mither;

But he smiles in her face,

And dauts doun her lang hair, And he maks the load light

For his sister to bear.

IV.

I ha'e look'd to them gaein'
To their bed 'mang the straw;
I ha'e looked, and been glad:

Whiles I thought that the twa Were but ane, for they gree aye, And creep close thegither; They're a near and a dear

Loving sister and brither.

V.

Weel they ken they've ae Father

Wha to them is kind:

That's God, whom ilk e'enin'

And mornin' they mind.

I've heard the puir laddie

W' sabbin' heart say,

Ere his dear mither de'ed

She had learned him to pray.

H

THE WIND.

I.

I DINNA like that dreary wind,
It makes me dull and wae;

It gars me think upon the grave
To which we a' maun gae,

It brings me to the gates o' death,
Whar a' is dark and drear;-

There's something in the howling wind

I dinna like to hear.

II.

It brings to mind the tales I've read
O' mountain, moor, an' glen,
Where solitary wanderers found
Remains of murder'd men.

I think

upon the houseless poor Wha wander wet and cauld; And sigh for a' the sufferings

O' the helpless, young and auld,