From whence, when the patch from its pane is un

furled,

We can spit with contempt on the rest of the world,
And, living on air, sure 'tis well understood,
That the higher the garret the purer the food.

Epigram,

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

IF cares can quench the poet's fire,
And damp each cheerful-rising thought,
Make Wilson drooping drop the lyre,
Ere he perhaps a theme has sought;

Sure if there lived a friendly swain,
Mild, merry, generous to the poet;
Inspiring joy, expelling pain,

To please inclined, and kind to show it.

Can words tell how my heart would leap,
How throb to meet a swain so true!
Exclaim you, with affection deep,

"Lives such a swain?"-he lives in you.

"Spring returns, but youth no more.'

LOUD roaring Winter now is o'er,

And Spring returns with fragrance sweet;

The bee sips nectar from each flower,

And frisking lambs on hillocks bleat.

The little birds chant on each bough,
And warbling larks, ascending sing,
Cheerful, amid the sun's bright glow,

They sweep around on sportive wing.

O

How pleasant, now, abroad to rove,

To view the fruit trees as they bloom;
To pluck the flowers that deck each grove,
Or wander through the yellow broom.
Yet, 'midst the pleasures we enjoy,

What painful cares harrass our breast,
Ah! were we freed from this annoy,
How peaceful calm our minds would rest.
The shady bowers, the waving woods,
With seeming joy we may explore;
Stand listening to the falling floods,

Yet still the weight increaseth more.
Oh! when will come that happy day,
When all perplexing cares will cease,
Ne'er till we pass that narrow way,
Which leads to everlasting peace.

To the Curious.

AN ENIGMA.

WHAT Samson embraced, when revenge for his eyes,
Provoked the huge warrior to tumble down legions;
What oft, thro' the night, from some ruined church
cries,

Harsh-voiced as a native of Pluto's pale regions;
The female whose folly all mankind impeach,

That e'er she was formed to embitter enjoyment; The little emphatical main-spring of speech,

Whose pleasure is toil, and whose ease is employment.

Pick out the initials of each of their names,

And his who destroyed, and then bowed down to
witches;

Which done, a known title your notice then claims,
Of a parcel of poor, insignificant wretches.

(O)

Verses to a Stationer,

WITH AN EMPTY INK-GLASS.

A PRESENT, perhaps, you'll conclude this to be,
But opened, and keep down the brink,-
Surprised you're no doubt at a message sae wee,
A dirty bit bottle for ink.

Yet, sma' though it seem, 'tis a manifest truth,
That castles frae out o't hae risen,

And claughans, and mountains, maun start frae its
mouth,

And critics in mony a stern dozen.

Then since sic a terrible squad's to be drawn,

Sican thrangs o' corruption and evil;

Let the liquor, guid sir, that you send ower the lawn,
Be as black, and as smooth as the devil!

Epitaph on John Allan.

While Wilson wrought in Lochwinnoch, he was much importuned by one of his shopmates to write him an epitaph. This individual had excelled in little except "daundering" upon the Sundays about the hedgerows and whin bushes in search of birds' nests. Wilson for a long time resisted the entreaties of his companion, for his best reason, that there was nothing in his character that could entitle him to a couplet; but being hard pressed, he burst forth with the following extemporaneous hit, which at once silenced the inquirer, and set his shopmates into a roar of laughter at his expense.- Sir W. Jardine's edition of the American Ornithology.

BELOW this stane John Allan rests;

An honest soul, though plain;

He sought hale Sabbath days for nests,
But always sought in vain!

Connel and Flora,

A SONG.

DARK lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;

Alas! morn returns to revisit our shore;
But Connel returns to his Flora no more!

For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies to return to his Flora no more.

Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er yon steep,
O would ye but waft me across the wild deep;
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more!

Togmenae,

A SONG.

AIR-"Patie's Wedding."

ON Hogmenae night, as ye'll hear,
Our noble good masters being willing
To help us to haud the New Year,
Sent up twenty hogs and a shilling :
The table in Mitchell's was laid,

That reached frae ae end to the ither,
A claith white as snaw o'er't was spread,
And knives, plates, and forks, a' thegither.

There were Dempster, and Brodie, and Dott,
The Landlord, and wee Danie Murray,
Geordie Kemp, wi' a spark in the throat,
And Andrew, wha's ne'er in a hurry.
Saunders Wright, Murray, Sandy, and Knox,
And Mitchell, and Wilson, and Miller,

A core o' as good hearty cocks

As e'er spent a saxpence o' siller.

O

O

At seven, the hour that was set,
By ane and ane inward they drappit,
Till ance maist a dizen had met,

And syne for some porter we rappit.
At length by a chiel 'twas proposed,
Wha langed to devour like a glutton,
That gin we were a' sae disposed,

We might send for the roast beef and mutton.

So Dempster, and Brodie, in Co.,

Like lamplighters ran to the baker's,
We drank in the meantime as slow,

And dowse, as a meeting of Quakers.
At length the twa carriers appeared,

The ne'er a ane then had the spavy;
And Brodie soon slairyed his beard

Wi' braw creeshie platefu's of gravy.

Sic clashing of knives, plates, and forks,
Was hardly e'er heard at a weddin',
The bottles were cleared o' their corks,
And plate after platefu' was laid in.
Slow Andrew drank brue like a fish,
For beef he had no meikle share in't,
And Brodie's chin glittered wi' creesh,
Till some swore they saw themsells fair in't.

Now ilka ane, swelled like a drum,

With roast beef, potatoes, and mutton,
Right steeve grew the stomachs of some,
While button was lowsed after button.

The banes a' thegither were got,

And plates and a' cleared frae the table,

And the landlord desired, by a vote,
For a stoupfu' as quick's he was able.

The board was now lifted awa',

And round gaed a mutchkin o' brandy,