What town can thrive wi' sic a crew
Within its entrails crawlin',

Muck-worms, that must provoke a spew
To see or hear them squalin'!

Down on your knees, man, wife, and wean—
For ance implore the deevil

To haurl to himself his ain,
And free us frae sic evil,

This vera day.

Wab's Moor,

OR THE TEMPLE OF TERROR.

Oн a' ye nine wha wing the lift,
Or trip Parnassus' green,

Or through droll bardies' noddles skift,
And mak' them bauld and bien;
Attend me while a scene I lift,

An awfu' waefu' screen,

That aft maist sent my saul adrift,

Out at my vera een,

On mony a day.

Now draw the string-hail weel kent part,
Ye doors and firms,-black gear;
But cease, thou flighterin' thuddin' heart,
Thou naething hast to fear;

The Muses deign thus low to dart,

To guard thy footsteps here:

Then cock thy bonnet brisk and smart,

The ferlies see and hear,

This waefu' day.

See how they're scuddin' up the stair,

A' breathless, and a' pechin'

"Wha cam' last?" " Me," cries some ane thereStill up they're comin' stechin';

Ο

Some oxtering pocks o' silken ware,
Some lapfu's hov't like kechan;
An' aft the sigh, and hum, and stare,
E'en frichtet like they're hechin',
Sad, sad, this day.

"Is this the dolefu' jougs, gudewife,
Or black stool o' repentance?
Or are ye try't 'tween death and life,
And waiting for your sentence?
Ye leuk to be a dismal corps

66

O' desolate acquaintance!"

'Whisht," quo' the wife, "ye maunna roar,

Or lad ye'll soon be sent hence,

By Hab this day."

Now twiggle twiggle goes the door,
In steps the foremost comer,
Tak's aff his cowl, pu's out his store,
A' shakin', tells the num'er.
The ready scales, a clinkin' corps

O' weights, amaist a hun'er;
Lets Andrew ken what down to score,
Syne heaves it out like lum'er,
In's neive this day.

Now, now, ye wretch, prepare, prepare,
And tak' a snuff to cheer ye;

See how he spreads your lizures bare_
Hech, but they're black and dreary.
"Lord, sirrah," Hab roars like a bear,
"What stops me but I tear ye?

Such lizures!-damn your blood, ye stare,-
By G-d, ye dog, I'll swear ye

To hell this day."

The poor soul granes aneath the rod,
As burning in a fever,

His knees to ane anither nod,

And hand, and lip pale, quiver.
The tiger stamps, with fury shod,
"Confound your blasted liver;
Bring hame the beating, and by G-d
Ye may be damned for ever,

For ought I care."

Now swelled to madness, round the room Hab like a fury prances;

While each successive comer's doom

Is fixt to hell, as chance is.

His agents a', wi' sullen gloom
Mute, measure, as he dances

With horrid rage, damning the loom,
And weavers; soon he scances
Their claith this day.

His fate met out, awa' wi' speed
The plackless sinner trudges,
Glad to escape the killing dread,
O' sic unfeeling judges.

His greetin' weans mourn out for bread,
The hopeless wife now grudges,
And ruin gathers round his head,
In many a shape that huge is,
And grim this day.

And now, ye pridefu' wabster chiels,

How dare ye stand afore him, And say he aften gi'es to deils,

Men that's by far before him;

Ye mock his skill o' claith and keels,

And frae douce christians score him,
But haith gin he kens this as weel,
To coin oaths I'se encore him

Aloud this day.

O

Go on,-great, glorious Hab, go on—

Rave owre the trembling wretches;
Mind neither merit, sex, nor one,

But curse them a' for bitches;
While echo answers every groan,
That their deep murmur fetches;
Damn every poor man's worth, and moan,
For that exalts like riches,

Bright souls as thine.

But when that serious day or night
That's sure to come draws near;
When thy ain wab, a dismal sight,
Maun to be judged appear.

Ha, Hab! I doubt thy weight owre light,
Will gar thee girn and swear;

An' thou'lt gang down the brumstane height,
Weel guarded flank and rear,
To hell that day.

The Insulted Pedlar,

A POETIC TALE, RELATED BY HIMSELF.

Honi Soit Qui Mal y Pense.

O YE, my poor sca't brethren a',
Wha mony a time wi' hungry maw,
Implore the beild o' some barn wa',
Wi' hurdies sair,

Now to the deil your boxes blaw,
And beg nae mair.

I've seen the day, but faith it's gane,
When roun' farm towns, frae ane to ane,
The shortest route we might have ta'en,
Nor been molested,

But now wi' stabs, an' lime, an' stane,
We're vext an' pested.

O

The deil a fit ye owre dare set,

But trudge lang twa mile to the yett,
Or by the L-d ye'll aiblins get

Your legs in chains;

Or skelpit back wi' haffits het,

And broken banes.

Ae nicht short syne as hame I trampit,
Beneath my pack, wi' banes sair crampit,
But owre a wee bit dyke I lampit,

And trottin burn,

There to do for my ain bethankit,
A needfu' turn.

Aweel, I scarcely had begun

To ope the evacuating gun,

I'll swear they hadna reached the grun.

When frae the wud

A bellied gent. steps owre the run,

Wi'"Dem your blood!

"By whose authority or order

Came ye upon this corn-rig border,
To rowe your filth and reeking ordure
On me a Bailie?

Hence wi' your dirt, else by the L-d or
Lang I'll jail ye."

I glowert a wee, syne fetched a grane,
'Deed sir, through mony a lane I've gane,
An' gin ye raise me frae this stane,

Ne'er laird or lady

Attempted such a job their lane,

Till I was ready.

"Gin ye can prove, by pen or tongue,
That lan' ne'er profited by dung,

N