His very foot has music in 't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-
In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin 's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought-
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There 's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman 's awa'.

JEAN ADAM.

The Toper's Apology.

I'm often ask'd by plodding souls
And men of crafty tongue,
What joy I take in draining bowls,

And tippling all night long.

Now, though these cautious knaves I scorn,

For once I'll not disdain

To tell them why I sit till morn
And fill my glass again.

"T is by the glow my bumper gives
Life's picture 's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
And softly sinks the shade;

Some happier tint still rises there
With every drop I drain-

And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flight will take;

But round a bowl she 'll dip and fly,

Like swallows round a lake.

Then if the nymph will have her share
Before she 'll bless her swain-
Why that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

In life I 've rung all changes too,—
Run every pleasure down,-
Tried all extremes of fancy through,
And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new or rare
Till wine deceives my brain-
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

There's many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old;
And as the lesson strikes my head,
My weary heart grows cold.
But wine awhile drives off despair,
Nay, bids a hope remain-
And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state

In these convulsive days,

I can't endure the ruin'd fate

My sober eye surveys;

But, 'milst the bottle's dazzling glare,

I see the gloom less plain

And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass,
And sit with sober air,

I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass,
Who treads the path of care;

Or, harder tax'd, I 'm forced to bear

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain—
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

Nay, do n't we see Love's fetters, too,
With different holds entwine?
While nought but death can some undo,
There's some give way to wine.
With me the lighter head I wear
The lighter hangs the chain-
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

And now I'll tell, to end my song,

At what I most repine;

This cursed war, or right or wrong,

Is war against all wine;

Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare

As juice of France or Spain

And that I think 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

CHARLES MORRIS

The Three Warnings.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground:
'T was therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our later stages,

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,-
If old assertions can't prevail,—
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave "You must," says he, 66 Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side! With you!" the hapless husband cried; "Young as I am 't is monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day you know." What more he urged, I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared,

And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look—

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
"Neighbor," he said, "Farewell! No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And farther, to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you 're summoned to the grave.
Willing for once I 'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve,
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."

To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell.

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of death as near;

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road

The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood
As all alone he sat,

Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise,

"So soon returned!" old Dodson cries.
d' ye call it?" Death replies.

"So soon,

"Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest!

Since I was here before

'T is six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined;

"To spare the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal;

And your authority—is 't regal?
Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant.

Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,