THE WASHING.

BAULD wee birkie, what's the matter,
That ye're raising sic a din?
Weel ye ken it's caller water

Gi'es ye sic a bonnie skin;

Cease your spurring, tak' your washing,
Syne ye'll get your milk and bread;

Gin you dinna quit your splashing,

I

may douk ye ower the head.

Now it's ower, my bonnie dearie,
There's a skin like driven snaw,
Lively, louping, plump wee peerie,
See how soon I'll busk you braw;
Let me kame your pretty pow now,
Let me shed your shining hair-
To your gambles! romp and row now,
Whisk and whid round daddy's chair.

Now, ye funny frisking fairy!

See how snod ye're now and sleek!
Water mak's you brisk and airy,

Lights your e'e and dyes your cheek;
O there's nought like being cleanly!
Cleanliness is mair than wealth;
Let us cleed however meanly,

Cleanliness gi'es joy and health.

YOUR DADDY'S FAR AT SEA.

YOUR daddy's far at sea, bonnie bairn! bonnie bairn! Your daddy's far at sea, bonnie bairn!

Your daddy's far at sea! winning gold for you and me, And how happy yet we'll be! bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn!

And how happy yet we'll be, bonnie bairn!

Your daddy's leal and true, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn! Your daddy's leal and trne, bonnie bairn!

Your daddy's leal and true, to your minnie and to you,

And beloved by all the crew, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn!

And beloved by all the crew, bonnie bairn!

Then we'll pray for daddy's weal, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,

Then we'll pray for daddy's weal, bonnie bairn ;

We'll pray for daddy's weal, that distress he ne'er may feel,

While he guides the sheet or wheel, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn!

While he guides the sheet or wheel, bonnie bairn !

Should hurricanes arise, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,
Should hurricanes arise, bonnie bairn,

Should hurricanes arise, lashing seas up to the skies, May his guide be the ALL-WISE, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn!

May his guide be the ALL-WISE, bonnie bairn!

'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,

'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, bonnie bairn;

'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, may he brave its wildest wrath,

While it strews the deep with death, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn !

While it strews the deep with death, bonnie bairn!

And on the wings of mercy borne, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn,

And on the wings of mercy borne, bonnie bairn;

On wings of mercy borne, may he soon and safe return,

To make glad the hearts that mourn, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn!

To make glad the hearts that mourn, bonnie bairn !

A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT

Of a Thing to be seen daily in the Trongate and Argyle Street,

Glasgow.

WRITTEN IN 1831.

QUOTH Nature to Art, "My dear handmaid, come, view
This thing I've sketched out to be finished by you;

But how you're to do it, I really know not,
For being too hurried, I've some things forgot.

"What a pity that I should be ever in haste,

As some wants may occur, or some parts be misplaced !
For in this very picture 'tis palpably plain,

That even myself may make some things in vain ;
And but for your help, I am sorry to say,

This is one of these things I would fain throw away.
It can't be a woman-it can't be a man,

But take it, and make it whatever you can:-
It has form, it has limbs, and a passable face,
But the heart, you'll perceive, is put in the wrong place;
And the brain, O the brain! I have wholly omitted,
While the tongue and the teeth are entirely misfitted;
For the tongue is a magpie's, the teeth are a monkey's,
And the ears, bless my stars! half resemble a donkey's;
Nay, start not, affrighted—but just take a view,
And you'll see what I tell you is perfectly true.

"Observe how the creature does chatter and grin,
As it views in its glass its most beautiful skin;
Observe what grimaces-what gestures are there-
What a foolish parade-what a laughable air-
And with what self-complacency this stupid elf
Surveys, round and round, its self-deified self.
I vow I'm ashamed of my handiwork here,
Yet mend it I cannot, I very much fear;
Sure a more stupid picture was never designed;
But just take and colour it up to your mind;

And when your whole pains on the thing you bestow,
If it can't be of use it may do for a show."

Quoth Art, "I'll endeavour to give it a touch,
But I fear at the best it will prove but a botch,
For what is defectively made at the first,
In patching it up is sure to be curst.
However, I'll study, while lending my aid,
To gloss o'er the blunders you've hastily made;
But I beg that in future you'll take better care,
As too many patchings now fall to my share."

Then Art took the creature, and got it incased
In a jerkin of whalebone to tighten its waist;
To make it look spruce, then her hand she employed
In decking the outside of that which was void,
While into the vacuum loosely she tumbled
A head of mixed matter, together all jumbled-
Set phrases, trite sentiments, common-place news,
Some newly-coined oaths, fancy slang most profuse,
Small scraps of stage ballads, a French word or two,
With a deal of "'pon honours," and "ma'ams, how dy'e
do."

All these mixed together, with nonsense great store,
Now filled up the place that was empty before.

To finish the rest of it, what does Art do? She dresses the thing in a smart cut surtout, With vest and drill trousers of exquisite make, And makes it resemble half puppy, half rake; Upon its slim legs, and its tender feet, puts A pair of silk stockings, and nonpareil boots— Gives it frills, a high collar, and stiffened cravat, And overtops all with a sugar loaf hat— Puts into its delicate hand a small caneMakes it sport a fine quizzing-glass hung from a chainInstructs it to scrape, bow, and turn out its toesClaps a pair of green spectacles on its sharp noseInserts in its muzzle a lighted cigar,

To give it the air of a swaggering tar

Makes it study the gracefullest way to take snuff— Gives its phiz a horn-sheathing to make it blush-proofBestows on it whiskers of African's hair,

And sets it a strutting a la militaire :

Thus she goes on re-touching, from bottom to top, Till the thing's wholly finished-an exquisite Fop.

PETER CORNCLIPS.

A TALE.

"TWAS New'rday, aughteen twenty-four,
I think about the breakfast hour,-
At least, 'twas early in the day,-
That PETER CORNCLIPS took his way
Frae auld St. Mungo's town sae smeeky,
To venerable gude Auld Reekie,
To view the ferlies, and so forth,
O' that famed Mistress o' the North;
Which self-conceited Christian heathens
Hae lately baptized Modern Athens.
Her castle gray, her ancient palace,
Her biggin's high, on hills-in valleys,
Her spacious streets, her Mound, and Bridges,
Where citizens, as thick as midges,
A varied, motley, countless thrang,
Mix, move, and bustle still alang.
Her venerable auld St. Giles,
The pride o' ancient Gothic piles,
Surmounted by the imperial crown,
Which mony a stormy blast has seen,
And yet has ne'er been tumbled down,
As some imperial crowns hae been ;
For not a few hae kiss'd the ground
Since honest auld St. Giles was crowned.
But stop-sic thoughts are out o' season,
Besides, they strongly smell o' treason,
And that, ye ken, will never do,
While royal Reekie's in our view,
That seat o' ancient Scottish glory,
Ere there was either Whig or Tory.-