There he pours his melting ditty
And love is a' the theme;
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.

When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonnie lucken gowan
Has fauldit up his ee;

Then the lavrock frae the blue lift,

Draps down and thinks nae shame

To woo his bonnie lassie,

When the kye come hame.

See yonder pawky shepherd,
That lingers on the hill:
His yowes are in the fauld,
And his lambs are lying still;

Yet he downa gang to bed,

For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame.

When the little wee bit heart
Rises high in the breast,
And the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,

O, there's a joy sae dear

That the heart can hardly frame!

Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,

When the kye come hame.

Then since all Nature joins
In this love without alloy,
O, wha wad prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or, wha wad choose a crown,
Wi' its perils an' its fame,
And miss his bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame?

JAMES HOGG.

THE EDITOR.

The editor sat in his easy chair,
But he sat not easy; there being an air
Of anxious thought beclouding his brow,
As if rightly he knew not what or how
To do in some matter of moment great,
On which depended a throne or a state;
When, all of a sudden, flew open wide
The office door, and, with hasty stride,
A loaferish figure came stalking in
With a rubicund phiz, and hairy chin,
(The former a product directly of gin)
And with fiery eye and menacing air,
He made right up to the editor's chair.

"Are you the man

What edits the paper?

I've come to tan

Your hide for that caper.

You called me a villain; you called me a rogue;
A way of speaking, sir, too much in vogue
With you fellows that handle the printing press.
Defend yourself, sir! I demand a redress.”

The editor quailed,
Decidedly paled,

But just at the moment his courage gave way, His genius stepped in, and gained him the day. "I'm not the person you seek," he said; "If you want redress, go straight to the head. He's not far off, and will settle affairs,

I have n't a doubt. I'll call him up stairs."

Then down he went

As if he were sent,

A fire, or something worse to prevent.
Meanwhile there came, through a door below,
Another somebody to deal him a blow;

A scamp well known to annals of fame,
Whom, the hapless editor hoping to tame,
Had ventured to publish, and that by name.

At the foot of the stair,

Or near it somewhere,

The monster met him, demanding redress,
And, just like the other, began to press
Poor editor hard with a Billingsgate mess,
And threaten forthwith his hide to dress;
When necessity, mother of all invention,
And a brain editorial, used to tension,
Contrived a means of diverting attention.

Stranger," said he,

"Be not too free

In applying abusive words to me;

Up stairs is the person you wish to see."
Up stairs all raging, the rowdy flew,
(Neither complainant the other knew)
So the moment they met, without more ado,
At it they went, in a regular set to.

A terrible tussle,

A terrible bustle,

They make, as round the room they wrestle;
There were but few words, but plenty of blows,
For they fought like a couple of deadly foes,
Till each had acquired a bloody nose;
And each had the pleasure distinctly to spy,
In the face of the other, a very black eye!

THE DOORSTEP.

The conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past
Like snow birds willing to be mated.

ANONYMOUS

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming: By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff

O sculptor, if you could but mould it!— So lightly touched my jacket cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone,

'T was love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone

Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home;
Her dimpled hand the latches fingered,
We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood,
And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled,

But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

A cloud passed kindly overhead,

The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said,

66 'Come, now or never! do it! do it!"

My lips till then had only known

The kiss of mother and of sister,

But somehow, full upon her own

Sweet rosy, darling mouth-I kissed her!

Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still,

O listless woman, weary lover!
To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill
I'd give—but who can live youth over?

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.