Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;

For while he spake a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear.

Whereat his horse did snort as he
Had heard a lion roar,

And gallop'd off with all his might
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why? they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said

That drove them to the Bell,

This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain, Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein.

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went post-boy at his heels,

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry.

Stop thief, stop thief- a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute,

And all and each that pass'd that way
Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space,
The toll-men thinking as before

That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town,

Nor stopp'd till where he had got up
He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And Gilpin, long live he,

And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!

WILLIAM COWPER.

MY BONNIE MARY.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie;
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith;

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankèd ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the war o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
ROBERT BURNA

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:

And now,

how like a saint she sleeps!

A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above control

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul

Remain within its sanctuary!

SAMUEL ROGERS.1

JOHN ANDERSON.

JOHN Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;

1 SAMUEL ROGERS was the son of a London banker and born in 1763. He succeeded to his father's business in 1793, but after a few years retired with a sufficient fortune to live a life of leisure, and gratify his literary tastes and the love of poetry, which he had shown from his earliest years. He published a long descriptive poem, Italy, and a volume of short poems. He was best known, however, during his long life, as a wit and man of society, and was for two generations one of the most conspicuous figures in London life. He died in 1955.

And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we 'll

go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

ROBERT BURNS,

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN.

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now 's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour:

See approach proud Edward's pow'r —
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa'?

Let him follow me!

1 The battle of Bannockburn was fought on June 24, 1314, be ¡ween the Scotch, under Robert Bruce, and the English, unde Edward II. It resulted in the total defeat of the English.