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With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich !

She sang this “Song of the Shirt !”

KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down

In a lonely mood to think ;
'Tis true he was a monarch, and wore a crown,

But his heart was beginning to sink.
For he had been trying to do a great deed,

To make his people glad,
He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed,

And so he became quite sad.
He flung himself down in low despair,

As grieved as man could be;
And after a while as he pondered there,

“I'll give it all up,” said he.
Now just at the moment a spider dropped,

With its silken cobweb clue, And the King in the midst of his thinking stopped,

To see what the spider would do.
'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,

And it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb home,

King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl

Straight up with strong endeavour,
But down it came, with a slipping sprawl,

As near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran; not a second it stayed,

To utter the least complaint,
Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,

A little dizzy and faint.
Its head grew steady—again it went,

And travelled a half-yard higher.
'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,

And a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell and swung below, .

But again it quickly mounted,
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,

Nine brave attempts were counted. “Sure," cried the King, “that foolish thing

Will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling,

And tumbles every time.”
But up the insect went once more,—

Ah me, 'tis an anxious minute,
He's only a foot from his cobweb door,

Oh, say, will he lose or win it !
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,

Higher and higher he got, And a bold little run at the very last pinch,

Put him into his native cot. 5 Bravo, bravo !” the King cried out,

“ All honour to those who try! The spider up there, defied despair,

He conquered, and why shouldn't I ?” And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,

And gossips tell the tale, That he tried once more, as he tried before,

And that time did not fail,

Pay goodly heed, all you who read,

And beware of saying, “I can't ;
'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead

To Idleness, Folly, and Want.

Whenever you find your heart despair

Of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again,

And remember the Spider and King !


To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who

spoke :“ Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns to

be broke ; So let each cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of bonny Dundee!

Come, fill up my cup ; come, fill up my can; Come, saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come, open the west port, and let me gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of bonny Dundee !"

Dundee he is mounted and rides up the street,
The bells are rung backwards, the drums they are beat,
But the provost, douce man, said “Just e'en let him


The gude town is well quit of that deil of Dundee !"

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
Ilk carline was flying and shaking her pow;
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and

slee, . Thinking “Luck to thy bonnet, thou bonny Dundee !" With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was

crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ; There was spite in each look, there was fear in

each ee, As they watched for the bonnets of bonny Dundee !

The cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;
But they shrunk to close heads, and the causeway was

At the toss of the bonnet of bonny Dundee !

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle-rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke :“ Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words

or three, For the love of the bonnet of bonny Dundee !"

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes;
“ Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose !
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of bonny Dundee !

“ There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond

Forth; If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the

north : There are wild Dunnies wassals three thousand times

three Will cry ‘hoigh' for the bonnets of bonny Dundee !

“ There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide ;
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
At a toss of the bonnet of bonny Dundee!

“ Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox :
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee :
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!”

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were

The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee
Died away the wild war-notes of bonny Dundee !

“ Come, fill up my cup ; come, fill up my can;
Come, saddle the horses ; come, call up the men;
Come, open your gates, and let me go free,
For it's up with the bonnet of bonny Dundee !"



Ho! breakers on the weather bow,

And hissing white the sea;
Go, loose the topsail, mariner,

And set the helm a-lee ;
And set the helm a-lee, my boys,

And shift her while ye may ;
Or not a living soul on board

Will view the light of day.

Aloft the seaman daringly

Shook out the rattling sail ;
The danger fled-she leapt a-head

Like wild stag through the gale ;
Like wild stag through the gale, my boys,

All panting as in fear,
And trembling as her spirit knew

Destruction in the rear !

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