THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL

It's a different thing that I demand,

Tho' humble as can be

A statement fair in my Maker's hand To a gentleman like me:

A clear account writ fair an' broad,
An' a plain apologie;

Or the deevil a ceevil word to God
From a gentleman like me.

X

THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB

D

EAR Thamson class, whaure'er I gang

It aye comes ower me wi' a spang: "Lordsake! they Thamson lads — (deil hang

Or else Lord mend them)!—

An' that wanchancy annual sang

I ne'er can send them!"

Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke
To find a rhyme t' ye;

Pleased although mebbe no pleased-like-
To gie my time t' ye.

"Weel," an' says you, wi' heavin' breist,
"Sae far, sae guid, but what's the neist?
Yearly we gaither to the feast,

A' hopefu' men

Yearly we skelloch Hang the beast-
Nae sang again! '''

My lads, an' what am I to say?
Ye shürely ken the Muse's way:

TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB

Yestreen, as gleg's a tyke—the day,
Thrawn like a cuddy:

Her conduc', that to her's a play,
Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an' made my mane,
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane,
Fishin' for rhymes an' findin' nane,
Or nane were fit for ye—

Ye judged me cauld's a chucky stane
No car'n' a bit for ye!

But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn As weak as a pitaty-par'n'—

Less used wi' guidin' horse-shoe airn Than steerin' crowdie

Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn, To ca' the how die.

Wae's me, for the puir callant than!
He wambles like a poke o' bran,
An' the lowse rein, as hard's he can,
Pu's, trem'lin' handit;
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan'
Behauld him landit.

Sic-like I awn the weary fac'-
Whan on my muse the gate I tak,
An' see her gleed e'e raxin' back
To keek ahint her;-

To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black
As blackest winter.

"Lordsake! we're aff," thinks I, "but whaur?
On what abhorred an' whinny scaur,
Or whammled in what sea o' glaur,
Will she desert me?

An' will she just disgrace? or waur·
Will she no hurt me?

Kittle the quaere! But at least

The day I've backed the fashious beast,
While she, wi' mony a spang an' reist,
Flang heels ower bonnet;

An' a' triumphant-for your feast,
Hae! there's your sonnet!

EMBRO HIE KIRK

HE Lord Himsel' in former days

proper tunes praise

An' named the proper kind o' claes
For folk to preach in:

Preceese and in the chief o' ways
Important teachin'.

He ordered a' things late and air';
He ordered folk to stand at prayer.
(Although I cannae just mind where
He gave the warnin'.)

An' pit pomatum on their hair

On Sabbath mornin'.

The hale o' life by His commands
Was ordered to a body's hands;
But see! this corpus juris stands
By a' forgotten;

An' God's religion in a' lands

Is deid an' rotten.

While thus the lave o' mankind's lost,
O' Scotland still God maks His boast-