From the barn-door poor Robin repairs to the ha'; All omens, say sages, betokening snaw.

The blythe bleezing ingle the fam❜ly surround, While mirth and good humour are there to be found;

The crack, joke, and song, round they quicklydo ca',
Nor mind they the omens betokening snaw.
At length, with the papers, wee Dicky arrives,
Impatient, the cover the gude man fast rives;
Then placing his spectacles firm on his nose,
He readeth aloud to them how the world goes i
How many gun-boats there are crowding Bou-

logne

How the army of England the shore it does throng

What grand gasconades are made by the Conven

"Dear father," quoth Jenny, "what are these gun-boats?

That they will cause us trouble, I have my ain

doubts;

For the French have been always a thorn on our

side,

And their Popish religion I cannot abide."

"Their sodgers these gun-boats are meant to bring

o'er,

But no rude invader shall land on our shore ;
Their gun-boats dare never appear on the sea,
So for their bravadoes affrighten'd not be."
"But," quoth the gudewife, "if you'll read Mr

Peden,

A man the most sceptic may even confide in,
He says, at Kirkcudbright they surely will lan',
And that 'bout the time that the barley is sawn.
And Peden was no doubt a right godly man,
Who steadfast and firm by the truth still did stan';
That he was prophetic will clearly appear,

Perhaps to our cost, even this very year.' "Such nonsense, gudewife, should ne'er enter

your pow,

While fair in the Channel rides brave gallant

Howe;

If he could them meet in our ain straits of Dover,

Not even one Frenchman would ever come over."

Says Johnny," Even should they set sail and get

o'er,

Wi' bold volunteers we'll attack them on shore; For our king and our country we'll spend our heart's blood;

We Britons may fall, but shall ne'er be subdued."
In such conversation night passes away,
Until the gudeman he says, "Come let us pray
When they all unite in religious devotion,-
A practice most worthy of our imitation.

PART SECOND.

BUT searce had soft slumbers closed their eyes, When storms truly dreadful did forthwith arise; The wind blew so loud, and so thick fell the snow, That Nature seem'd warring with mortals below. At the noise of the storm the storemaster arose, The pale shepherds start from their short-lived repose;

But the storm and the darkness so did them affray, That, anxious they wait for the dawning of day.

By the dawn, every shepherd repairs to his flocks, The icicles frizzling his beard and his locks

;

So dark is the drift, that he scarcely can tell
Which way to pursue, to the Kaim or greenfell.
For the fierce howling wind it continues to blow,
And tosses about the light volatile snow;
The wreaths they are deeply heap'd up in each lee,
That our shepherd can scarce either walk, breathe,

or see.

For his flock, by this time, he's in heavy alarm, And he bendeth his course straight unto the Kaim; The storm it continues, and still does increase, O'erwhelming our shepherd with doubt and distress. He's also in peril from craig and from scar, With dangers at hand, and worse dangers afar! His mind is bewilder'd as well as his eye,

Yet still pushes on, but knows not where nor why. But the clouds now depart, and appears the blue sky,

When the wandering shepherd around casts his eye; But through a false medium each object is seenAnd sure these are not the famed hills of Dalveen.

Pondering long with himself which tract to pursue,"
The moss-cover'd stone now appears in his view;
In transport, he cries, "I may still reach my home,
For yonder, Lo! yonder's the moss-cover'd stone."
In June and in July when weather was fair,
To this fav'rite stone he was wont to repair,
And under its shade, from morning till noon,
He would pore upon Blair, Smith, Robertson,
Hume.

But still the swollen stream at length he must

cross,

Which how to accomplish he's much at a loss,
Quite up to its banks with lopper 'tis swell'd,
Yet not to that barrier his bravery will yield.
All his skill, resolution, and courage, he needs,
The attempt now he makes, and he so far succeeds.
He gaineth the bank; but now woeful my tale,
On the wreath he sinks lifeless, the storm does
prevail.

His dog then commenced a most pitiful howl;
Is it reason? not reason, dogs have not a soul;