THE WONDERFU' WEAN. OUR wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw; How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear? Or wha was the first bodie's father? and wha Again he begins wi' his wha and his when; And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head THE WONDERFU' WEAN. 'Tweel! I'm unco ta'en up wi't they mak a' sae plain. He's just a town's talk; he's a by-ord'nar wean ! I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat, To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat; Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease; Then he marched through the house, he marched but, he marched ben, Like owre mony mae o' our great little men, That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna contain: He was sic a conceit sic an ancient-like wean! But 'mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows, Maks him every day dearer and dearer to me. And gloom through her fingers like hills through a shooer, How he cheers up their hearts! - he's a wonderfu' wean! WILLIAM MILLER. THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH. WHEN the breach was open laid, Our deep plashing footsteps sank, Echoed fierce from rank to rank. And we slew, and slew, and slew: The commanding of the Lord? THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH. Then we spread the wasting flame, In one moment won was there. Hall and palace, dome and tower, WILLIAM MAGINN. THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. O, SING unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday: Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout. O! he lies by the willow tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing |