It waukens up the human ire,

As winds on burnin' woods spread fire;
An' mak's us waur than ever hunted,
By those his ill will has affronted:-
Ill will, I say, not care o' us,

That puts the fouk in sic a fuss;
For those that tak' him to their houses,
To share in feasts and drunken bouses,
Them to restrict he winna fyke,
But let's them kill us as they like.

To mak' the truth o' this appear, I'll mention just ae instance here.

Ae day he catch'd a sprushy farmer,
Wi' dog an' gun, our constant harmer ;
A murthert hare hang on his back,
An' he was i' the very act

O' flinging o'er his head anither,
That he had kill'd amang the heather :
Ae word about it wasna said,
But to the farmer's house they sped;
An' there the afternoon they spent,
In drink an' games o' merriment;
An' frae that nicht down to this day
The farmer's made our lives his play.

Thus those that he has set on rage
The rod o' death upon's to wage,
In ilka way they can invent,
Whilk they can keep to him unkent,
Wi' ithers that he's gi'en permission,
Mak' far mair dismal our condition,
Than what it was afore his reign.
May Sorrow blaw him south again!

YOUNG HARE.

I really think you're ill informed About our frien', at whom you storm'd; But since than me you shou'd ken better, I'll say nae mair about the matter.

The reason that made me speak for him,
Is 'cause the people a' abhor him ;
From this I naturally inferr'd,

Their hate was 'cause he them deterr'd
From murth'ring maukins in cold blood,
By glens an' mosses, muir, an' wood;
But, gin things be the way you say,
Himsel❜ maun be our greatest fae.

But still I think, than man we're betterOur cares far less, our comforts greater.

OLD HARE.

I fairly own I 'canna see,

Nae way ava, that this can be ;
For, through the course of my long life,
I've found few comforts-mis'ry rife.

YOUNG HAREJO mio blunt

'Tis clearly proved, by laws o' men, Our lives are worth mair than their ain; For we can waste's we like oursel'

The farmer's corn, his neeps, an' kail;

An' he is forced to bear this a',

For we're protected by the law;

But, gin a man to ony body

Did half the hurt, he'd swing the woodie!

But here a shot the vallies rangUp got our maukins wi' a bang, An' bounced awa' into the woods, Wi' cow'rin' lugs an' cocked fuds.

L

JOHN OF LORA.

A Fragment.

A dreadful winter storm came on,
Bold John of Lora out was gone;
The Night her sable curtain spread
All o'er the woods of black Talquhon.

He wander'd, lost among the woods,
While snowy flakes about him roll'd ;
Till chance brought him to drear Talquhon,
For riches famed in days of old.

'Twas past his ken to find his home, So to the dome he ventur'd in ;

The blast the slates beat off the roof, Which hurl'd to ground in frightful din.

The wind howl'd loudly down the vents, And murmur'd through the wasted halls; And with such fury blew without,

As shook the strong time-crusted walls.

Benumb'd, by plodding 'mid the storm,
He to a lonesome closet crept,

And laid his weary frame to rest,

Where in short time he soundly slept.

He waken'd was by music sweet,

He wonder'd much what this could mean ; He slyly raised himself, and look'd— But, what a sight by John was seen!

A band, in concert, sweetly play'd,
Whose instruments were not like ours;
Their notes in cheering cadence fell,

That far surpass'd description's powers.

Some sat around, and view'd the dance-
Their robes were of no earthly green;
And, elevated o'er the rest,

In golden chair, was set their queen.