gate she'd traivelled day an' nicht,
A' kin' o' orra weather
Had seen her trampin' on the road,
Or trailin' through the heather.

But Time had set her pechin' sair,
As on his way he birled;
The body startit failin' fast
An' gettin' auld an' nirled.

An' syne, to weet the bairnie's heid
Owre muckle, whiles, they'd gie her;
But noo she's deid-ay, mony a year-
An' Andra's sleepin' wi' her.

DAYLICHT HAS MONY EEN.

O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht
At e'en when bars are drawn,
But can'le licht's a dowie sicht
When dwinin' i' the dawn.
Yet dawn can bring nae wearier day
Than I hae dree'd yestre'en,
An' comin' day may licht my way-
Daylicht has mony een.

Noo, daylicht's fairly creepin' in,
I hear the auld cock craw;
Fu' aft I've banned him for his din,
An' wauk'nin' o' us a'!
But welcome noo's his lichtsome cry
Sin' bed-fast I ha'e been,
It tells anither nicht's gane by-
Daylicht has mony een.

O! bed-fast men are weary men,
Laid by frae a' their wark;
Hoo thocht can kill ye ne'er will ken
Till tholin' 't in the dark.
But ere nicht fa's I'll maybe see
What yet I hinna seen,
A land whaur mirk can never be-
Daylicht has mony een.

THE BANE-SETTER.

Oor Jock's gude mither's second man
At banes was unco skilly;
It cam' by heirskep frae an aunt,
Leeb Tod o' Nether Tillie.
An' when he thocht to sough awa',
He sent for Jock, ay did he,
An' wulled him the bane-doctorin',
Wi' a' the lave o's smiddy.

A braw doon-settin' 'twas for Jock,
An' for a while it paid him,
For wi's great muckle nieves like mells
He pit in banes wi' smeddum.
Ay! mony a bane he snappit in
At elbuck, thee, an' shouther;
Gin ony wouldna gang his gait,
Jock dang them a' to poother.

Noo, smiddy wark's a droothy job,
Sae whiles Jock wat his whustle,
When wi' a horse-shoe or a bane
He'd held some unco tussle.
But even though miracklous whiles,
It mattered nane whativer,
For whaur's the body disna ken
A drucken doctor's cliver?

Ae nicht when Jock was gey weel on,
An' warslin' wi' some shoein',
They brocht a bane case intil him
That proved puir Jock's undoin',
A cadger wi' an auld cork leg,
An' fou as Jock or fouer,
Wha swore that o' his lower limb
He'd fairly lost the pooer.

Jock fin's the leg, an' shaks his heid,
Syne tells the man richt solemn,
"Your knee-pan's slippit up your thee
Aside your spinal column;
But gin ye'll tak a seat owre here,
An' lat them haud ye ticht, man,
I'se warrant for a quart o'