Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

Oh free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design,

Then man my soul with firm resolves To bear, and not repine!

FROM A MEMORANDUM BOOK.

OH why the deuce should I repine,
And be an ill foreboder?

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine,

Oн leave novels, ye Mauchline belles,

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;

Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel. .

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part;

"Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. . . .

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.
TUNE- The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O;

For without an honest manly heart no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did deter mine, O;

Though to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, 0:

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet ny education, O;

Resolved was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted for tune's favour, O;

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour,. O.

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpowered, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harassed, and tired at last, with fortune's vain delusion, O,

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, 0:

The past was bad, and the future hid its good or ill untried, O;

But the present hour was in my power, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;

So I must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labor to sustain me, O;

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;

For one,

he said, to labor bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, through life I'm doomed to wander, O,

Till down my weary bones I lay, in everlasting slumber, O.

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of tomorrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O,

Though fortune's frown still hunts me down with all her wonted malice, 0:

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it further, O;

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labor I earn a little money, O,

Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me, 0:

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatured folly, O:

But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardor, O,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the further, O:

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S

ONLY PET YOWE:

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

The following poem took its rise in a simple incident thus related by Gilbert Burns. "He had, partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from a neighbor, and she was tethered in a field adjoining the house at Lochlea. He and I were going out with our teams, and our two younger brothers to drive for us, at mid-day, when Hugh Wilson, a curious-looking, awkward boy, clad in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety in his face, with the information that the ewe had entangled herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Robert was much tickled with Hughoc's appearance and posture on the occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights; and when we returned from the plough in the evening, he repeated to me her Death and Dying Words pretty much in the way they now stand."

As Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,