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 gather to the feast,
A' hopefue' men--
Yearly we skelloch 'Hang the beast--
Nae sang again!'_"

My lads, an' what am I to say?
Ye shuerely ken the Muse's way:
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 uesed wi' guidin' horse-shoe aim
Than steerin' crowdie--
Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn,
To ca' the howdie.

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!

XI

EMBRO HIE KIRK

The Lord Himsel' in former days
Waled out the proper tunes for 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 canna 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