8. The butter, in spite of his scolding and warning, 9. Not much, to be sure, at the best he could boast, And his dinner mischance had extinguished the most, While the little not slain in the previous flutter, Is now drowned in the tea, and interred in the butter. 10. No longer the course of misfortune we trace: But we thought we could draw from his pitiful case TO A MOUSE.-ROBERT BURNS. ON TURNING ONE UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH. 1. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin and chase thee 2. I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 3. I doubtna, whyles, but thou may thieve: *A short race. + Plough-staff. A daimen icker* in a thrave,t I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, 4. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! And bleak December's winds ensuin' 5. Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past 6. That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 7. But, mousie, thou art no thy lane, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain 8. Still art thou blest, compared wi' me! An ear of corn now and then. A shock of corn. ** Off the right line, wrong. But oh! I backward cast my e'e And forward, though I canna see, THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.-G. P. MORRIS. 1. WHY dost thou come at set of sun Why whip-poor-will?-what has he done? • 2. Why come you from yon leaf-shaded hill, A suppliant at my door? Why ask of me to whip-poor-will? ? 5. Yet wherefore strain thy tiny throat What means thy melancholy note? 6. Still "Whip-poor-will,"-Art thou a sprite From unknown regions sent, To wander in the gloom of night 7. Is thine a conscience sore beset Hast thou to meet writs, duns and debt, 8. If this be thy hard fate indeed, 9. Art thou a lover, Will?-hast proved Thine is the lot of all who've loved 10. Hast trusted in a friend, and seen A common error-men still lean 11. Hast thou in seeking wealth and fame O'er all the earth, 'tis just the same 12. Hast found the world a Babel wide 13. What none of these? Then whence thy painguess it who's the skill? То Pray have the kindness to explain Why I should whip-poor-will! 14. Dost merely ask thy just desert? Back to the woods again, unhurt, 15. But treat thee kindly-for my nerves, Who shall 'scape whipping?-NONE! 16. Farewell, poor Will-not valueless THE SONG OF THE LOCOMOTIVE.-TAIT'S MAGAZINE. 1. Away, away, I burst! Who will follow me? who? I have quenched my burning thirst, And I'm off!-Whiz, whistle, whew! 2. With my glowing heart of fire, From the city I sweep along, Like an arrow swift and true; 3. The citizen stood in my path, With the bower of delights he had made, And proudly he vowed, in his wrath, That his privacy none should invade ; |