If merchants were not caught thus craftily, Oh, 'tis a sight worth ten miles' walk to see, Behind their webs, these spiders lurking sly, And peering forth, lest any prey may be, And darting on the unsuspecting fly— Sucking its blood, till as a whistle it is dry.

22.

Ye muslin regions! climes where Corks have thriven, Where sign-boards, in their glory, flourish still,

Should from your flow'ry paradise be driven,

And pack'd, with baggage, o'er the three-mile hill,
We innocents, of manufacturing skill,

Worse than a fall of prices it would be;

Rather than in that thorny desert till,

Call'd "Glasgow city," from its growthless tree, I'd dangle like the bell, which on its branch we see.

23.

'Tis luxury beyond compare, all day,
About the Causeyside, from door to door,
With hands in breeches' pocket, warm, to stray,
And tell and hear queer stories o'er and o'er,
And into all our neighbour's business bore;
And then, O rare, the penny club at night,

Where, socially, we hum-drum, smoke, and snore,
Dreaming of times-we have the second sight—
When merchant swarms appear, with purses long and bright.

24.

Fine muslins, and fine woman we have both :

The former always takes the market well;
But how the merchants should continue loath
To take the latter too, I cannot tell.

Had I the management, I would not sell
The one, unless the other too was taken.
One damsel fair, with every thousand ell,
Is not too much, or I am much mistaken.
It breaks my heart to see our maidens thus forsaken.

25.

Look to the eastern border of the town,

And there you see a darkly towering fane,

The "Abbey Church," 'tis call'd, now half thrown down:
I wish I saw it proudly rear'd again.

The blot of vandalism, the name must stain
Of those who strew'd in dust its saintly choir.
The knavish rascals let the nave remain,
But not the transepts, with their lofty spire.
Some say, its labell'd bell is now in Durham shire.

26.

The dust, the golden dust of royalty,

Is held within its consecrated bound;
Parents of kings too-Walter and Margery-
Have long since there a place of slumber found.
Where such repose, a glory hovers round;

And many more, of various titled name,
Enrich, with noble dust, the sacred ground.
Death beats the leveller at his favourite game;
To him the monarch, noble, peasant, are the same.

27.

The sounding aisle you've seen; like other people,
Who visit our New Town and Burgh, no doubt,
You've sought that aisle, and climb'd the High Church
steeple.

In that dim aisle of echoes, round about,

From wall and groin'd roof, unseen spirits shout, Answering to him who calls: But when is sung, By some sweet choral band, a hymn devout, Ah, then is heard full many a seraph tongue : For mortal sounds, back raptured strains of heaven are flung.

28.

Thanks to the D. D. who, so piously,

Bemoan'd, wip'd off the deep disgrace, which time
And hands profane, had laid on Queen Blear-eye;
Both eyes with moss were blear'd, and dust and slime,
Her noble cheeks and robes, did sore begrime;
But now, in seemly state, both clean and neat,
Upon her stone couch does she safe recline
Within this aisle, as waiting to repeat

Some holy sister's strain, in echoings lingering sweet.

29.

Oh, wherefore in this bustling age was cast
My woful lot, in which man's wretched life
Is like the quickened mails, that run too fast,
Holding with time a vain and jading strife.
With a most reckless sweep, the pruning knife
Lops every graceful bough from life's fair tree :
'Tis only where the golden fruit is rife,
That the relentless hand may sparing be;
Thus paring life to shapeless, bare utility.

30.

The golden age is past-'tis no such thing;
At least the age for thirsting after gold;
For golden dreams, and costly offerings
To Mammon, God of wealth, so called of old.

All goes for yellow-metal. I'll uphold
That if you bid for Noses a fair price,

Soon by the gross you'll find these to be sold,
And, if in quality you're not so nice,
Behold, you've made the age quite noseless in a trice.

31.

Bottles are labell'd, telling what's within,
So are the dead, and why not living men?
With name and place, the label might begin,
Next—age, and rank, and birth, both where and when.
The temperament, the principles, and then
The lowest sum that can be taken for these,

The label, in nine cases out of ten,

Would be the porter's charge, "just what you please," To hold our principles does nothing else but teaze.

32.

These calculating times are not for me;
I should have lived three hundred years ago,
And spent my easy days in errantry,

As monk, or knight, to care a mortal foe.

I'd like to fight, indeed, but so and so;

With fiery dragons, and with giants grim

When others fought, I might have cried—bravo! With age, these monster's eyes would have been dim, Ere to molest their peace, my heart had been in trim.

33.

More in my element I would have been,
Wandering, at pleasure, all the country round,
A peaceful brother, Monk, or Capuchin,
Whilst in each house, a kindly host I found;

Or loitering in the shady cloister's bound;

Or sunning myself on bank, where wild-thyme grows ; In that calm sphere, each stilly sight and sound Would have called forth my genius for repose; Kind cherishing each high propensity—to doze.

34.

To nod, to doze, to slumber, to sleep sound,
These form, of human happiness, the scale;
For walking bliss has never yet been found;
At least, if found, it very soon turns stale :
The grains of paradise, they mix with ale,
In drowsy bliss, the willing senses steep,
Whilst care makes still our slumberings to fail.
To eat, to walk is but to sow-to reap

Life's richest harvest-is, in corner warm, to sleep.

35.

I hope the good old times will yet come back,
The jovial times of nuns and monks, and masses.
I think, I'm gifted with the sacred knack

Of playing Abbot-riding upon asses,

In which this town each other town surpasses. The Abbot of Paisley, then, I ought to be: With many a holy tax I'd bless all classes: The Paisley bank-notes would belong to me, For pictur'd on each one the Abbot's self you see.

36.

Quickly, the New Town shall demolish'd be,
And with the stones rebuilt the garden wall;
Within, I'll plant each goodly flower and tree,
From the low snow-drop to the poplar tall;