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When straight he came with hat and wig ;
A wig that flowed behind,
Each comely in its kind.
Thus showed his ready wit;
“But let me scrape the dirt away,
That hangs upon your face;
Be in a hungry case.”
And all the world would stare,
And I should dine at Ware.”
So turning to his horse, he said,
“I am in haste to dine ; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine." 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.
Had heard a lion roar,
As he had done before.
Went Gilpin's hat and wig ;
For why ?-they were too big.
Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down Into the country far away,
She pulled 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.”
John coming back amain ;
By catching at his rein;
And gladly would have done,
And made him faster run.
Went postboy at his heels,
The lumbering of the wheels.
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
They raised the hue and cry : “Stop thief !-stop thief !-a highwayman!"
Not one of them was mute ;
Did join in the pursuit.
Flew open in short space;
That Gilpin rode a race:
And so he did, and won it too ;
For he first got to town :
He did again get down.
And Gilpin, long live he!
May I be there to see!
(1752-1770.) BORN at Bristol, where his father was a schoolmaster. Educated at the Colston School in that city, and apprenticed to an attorney when fourteen years of age. He pretended to have discovered in the muniment room of St. Mary de Redcliffe's church (Bristol) fragments of ancient poems and descriptions of the city churches, and published them as the writings of a priest named Rowley who flourished in the fifteenth century. It was subsequently proved that these were all written by himself. When seventeen years old he left Bristol for London, in the hope of winning bread and fame by his pen. All his hopes, however, were frustrated, and in the bitterness of his disappointment he committed suicide by taking poison (1770) when not quite eighteen years of age.
O God, whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
Thy mercy in Thy justice praise.
The shadows of celestial light,
But what the Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own Thy power,
Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. If in this bosom aught but Thee,
Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the cause away. Then why, my soul, dost thou complain ?
Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God created all to bless.
But, ah ! my breast is human still ;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
vitals' feeble rill,
But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I'll thank the infliction of the blow, Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow. The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. ROBERT BURNS.
(1759–1796.) BORN near the Bridge of Doon, in the parish of Alloway, Ayrshire. His parents were in humble circumstances, and when only eleven years of age, Robert was taken from school to help on his father's farm. In early youth had contend much with adverse circumstances; and as he grew up he contracted habits of improvidence and dissipation. His first volume of poems, published in 1786, established his fame as a poet. In 1788 he took a farm near Dumfries, and soon after settling upon it obtained the post of exciseman. The farm proved a failure, and Burns went to live at Dumfries on his salary of £70 a yearhis salary as a revenue officer. Here sickness and debt severely harassed him, and he died at Dumfries on the 21st of July 1796.
Burns is celebrated chiefly for his Lines to a Mountain Daisy ; Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson ; The Cottar's Saturday Night; Tam o' Shanter, Lament for James Earl of Glencairn, and his Songs, among which may be mentioned his Highland Mary ; To Mary in Heaven ; Scots wha hae, etc.
HIGHLAND MARY. *
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Your waters never drumlie !
And there they langest tarry;
O’my sweet Highland Mary.
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,