For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them
They make enow themselves to vex them;
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A kintra fellow at the pleugh,
His acres tilled, he's right eneugh;
A kintra lassie at her wheel,
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel
But gentlemen an' ladies warst
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst;
They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy,
Though deil haet ails them, yet uneasy,
Their days insipid, dull an' tasteless,
Their nights unquiet, lang an' restless,
An' e'en their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping through public places:
There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches;
The ladies arm in arm in clusters
As great and gracious a' as sisters,

But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither,
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie
They sip the scandal potion pretty,
Or lee-lang nights wi' crabbit leuks
Pore owre the devil's pictured beuks,
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like onie unhanged blackguard.
There's some exception, man an' woman,
But this is gentry's life in common.

By this the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night;
The bum-clock hummed wi' lazy drone,
The key stood rowtin i' the loan,
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs;
An' each took aff his several way,
Resolved to meet some ither day.

But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, He stepped to where she lay, And, kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, "I am a minister;

My sister, let us pray."

And well withouten book or stole― God's words were printed on his soul— Into the dying ear

He breathed as 'twere an angel's strain The things that unto life pertain

And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed, regenerate;

Of God's most blest decree That not a single soul should die Who turns repentant with the cry, "Be merciful to me."

He spoke of trouble, pain and toil-
Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith and love-
Sure in God's own good time to be
Exchanged for an eternity
Of happiness above.

Then, as the spirit ebbed away,
He raised his hands and eyes to pray

That peaceful it might pass;

And then- The orphan's sobs alone Were heard, and they knelt, every one, Close round on the green grass.

Such was the sight their wondering eyes Beheld in heart-struck, mute surprise

Who reined their coursers back Just as they found the long-astray Who in the heat of chase that day

Had wandered from their track.

Yet not a heart to save my pain?
Oh, Venus, take thy gifts again!
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own.

JOHN HARrington.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'TIS

the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud, is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem :
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow

When friendships decay And from love's shining circle The gems drop away:

When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown,

Oh, who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THOMAS MOORE.

THE VICTORY OF BRUNNENBURG.

THE gates were then thrown open,

And forth at once they rushed; The outposts of the Moorish hosts

Back to the camp were pushed;

The camp was all in tumult,

And there was such a thunder

Of cymbals and of drums.

As if the earth would cleave in sunder.

There you might see the Moors
Arming themselves in haste,
And the two main battles

How they were formning fast,
Horsemen and footmen mixt,
A countless troop and vast.
The Moors are moving forward,
The battle soon must join.
My men, stand here in order,

Ranged upon a line;

Let not a man move from his rauk
Before I give the sign."

Pero Bermuez heard the word,

But he could not refrain:
He held the banner in his hand,
He gave his horse the rein:
"You see you foremost squadron there,
The thickest of the foes?
Noble Cid, God be your aid,

For there your banner goes!

Let him that serves and honors it
Show the duty that he owes.'
Earnestly the Cid called out,
'For Heaven's sake be still!"
Bermuez cried, "I cannot hold,"
So eager was his will.

He spurred his horse, and drove him on
Amid the Moorish rout;

They strove to win the banner,

And compassed him about. Had not his armor been so true,

He had lost either life or limb; The Cid called out again,

"For Heaven's sake succor him !" Their shields before their breasts,

Forth at once they gc,