hy.
I love my lady with a deep purple love.

_Unknown._

BYGONES

Or ever a lick of Art was done,
Or ever a one to care,
I was a Purple Polygon,
And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

You yearned for me across a void,
For I lay in a different plane,
I'd set my heart on a Red Rhom_boid_,
And your sighing was in vain.

You pined for me as well I knew,
And you faded day by day,
Until the Square that was heavenly Blue,
Had paled to an ashen grey.

A myriad years or less or more,
Have softly fluttered by,
Matters are much as they were before,
Except 'tis I that sigh.

I yearn for you, but I have no chance,
You lie in a different plane,
I break my heart for a single glance,
And I break said heart in vain.

And ever I grow more pale and wan,
And taste your old despair,
When I was a Purple Polygon,
And you were a Sky-Blue Square.

_Bert Leston Taylor._

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An' a' unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae! the crowdies loup
O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,
There's nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear
Is gone where glint the pawky een.
And aye the stound is birkin lear
Where sconnered yowies wheeped yestreen,
The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes
Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs,
Nor weanies in their wee bit claes
Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonny byke!
My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,
An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke
Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou.
And Scotia! while thy rantin' lunt
Is mirk and moop with gowans fine,
I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt,
An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

_Unknown._

LAMENT OF THE SCOTCH-IRISH EXILE

Oh, I want to win me hame
To my ain countrie,
The land frae whence I came
Far away across the sea;
Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere,
And I greet and wonder sair
Where the deil it can be?

I hae never met a man,
In a' the warld wide,
Who has trod my native lan'
Or its distant shores espied;
But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic race
Its dim origin can trace--
Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.

But anither answers: "