'Tis said, too, that he can disguise so the truth,
As to give to old age the resemblance of youth—
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar;
Can make the dark countenance lively and fair,
And give the bald pate an exub'rance of hair ;
Nay, more-by the help of his combs and his curls,
Can transform mouldy maids into gay giddy girls-
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

Long may this sharp shaver successfully shave
The chin of the just man—the cheek of the knave-
But while light sweeps his hand o'er the honest man's chin,
Ne'er causing wry faces, nor scratching the skin,
May the cheek of the villain severely be stung
By the rough rugged razor, or keen cutting tongue,
Of the barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

ALEX. RODGER.

THE BLACK SHEEP.1

AIR-" John Anderson my jo."

OH John, what can be keeping you—how lang, man, will ye bide,

Ye surely hae mista'en your road, and dauner't into Clyde ; Here, weary by the ingle side, a lanely wife I sit—

I'm sure that's Twa that's chappit noo, and nae word o' ye yet.

Of our John's reformation I lang hae tint a' houp,
He never thinks o' rising while a drap there's in the stoup:
Wi' gaunting and wi' gaping, my puir head's like to split-
I hear his voice upon the stair-and surely that's his fit.

(John soliloquising on the stair). "That's no our stair-no the ane that I gang up to my nest on-I think it's coming down to meet

I This piece of exquisite humour is a contribution of the late John D. Carrick, to the second series of the Laird of Logan, and we have thought that it is not out of its element in this collection.

me-and it's gaun round about too-there's no twa stanes in't like ane anither-some o' them wad haud twa feet, and ithers a sparrow couldna get fittin' on. Weel, gin I were at the head o't, and on the inside o' my ain door, I'll raise a skellihewit wi' Janet, it will I— because, gin I dinna do't wi' her, she'll do't wi' me--an' a man should be aye master in his ain house, right or wrang; it's a' the same whether the parritch is ready or no-on the fire or af't—cauld or het, I maun be het;—if she's pouterin' at the fire, and keeping it in for me, I'll tell her she had nae business staying up-she might hae been aneath the blankets, for she would pouter a while, afore the fire could len' ony light for me to come hame wi' ;—and if she be in her bed, I'll mak' her lugs stoun' wi' her carelessness about her half marrow that he might hae been robbed or murdered for ony care she had o' him, but lying there snoring like a dog in a tod's hole. But there she is-I hear her, can I really be angry wi' her?—Yes; I maun be angry at something." (Chaps). (Inquires)—“ Wha's that?" "Open the door, and ye'll see-it's ill to ken folk through a twa-inch plank." "I would like to ken wha it is, before I open my door to onybody." "Weel, Janet, you're perfectly right-there's naething like being cautious." "Is't you, John, after a'? siccan a night as I hae spent, thinking a' the ills on earth had happened to you; whar hae ye been, John?" "Oh, Janet, dinna be in sic a hurry." "In a hurry, John, near three o'clock in the morning!" 'Janet, it's the first time since you and I cam thegither, that I hae seen you wasting onything!" "Me wasting, John !—the only thing I'm wasting is mysel." "Na, Janet, that's no what I mean; what's the use o' burning twa crusies to let ae body see-an' ye might hae lighted half a dizen an' they a' couldna let me see to come hame?" "John, John, you're seeing wi' mae een than your Maker gied ye this night-your een are just gaun thegither." "I'm no a hair fley'd for that, my doo, Janet, as lang's my nose is atween them." "Ou ay, John, but ye hav'na tell't me whar ye hae been till this time in the morning?" "Did ye ever hear sic a high wind as is blawin' frae the lift this night? the cluds will be blawn a' to rags--there'll no be a hale corner left in them to haud a shower in, afore the mornin'no a gas-lamp blinkin' in the Trongate; gin ye get up wi' the ducks in the mornin', Janet, you'll see the Green scattered ower wi' the kye's horns, for they couldna keep their roots in siccan a win'-an' ye'll get them for the gathering." "Ay, John, it's a high wind, but for onything that I hear, it's blawin' nae higher than your ain head; whar was ye?" "Dear me, did I no tell ye, Janet? I'll hae forgotten then; I might hae tell't ye--I'm sure I was nae ill gate-that's a lang an' no vera tenty stair o' ours to come up; I maist missed my

fit this night coming up it mair than ance—we'll hae to flit next term, I doubt ye maun gang and look after anither ane the morn, an I'll gang wi' ye-twa heads are better than ane, quo' the wife, gaun wi' her dog to the market.' "Come, come, John, nane o' your palavers, ye needna think to draw the blade ower an auld body's e'e; the stair, John, atweel's nane o' the best, but the stair that would suit you best this night is ane wi' nae steps in't ;-but whar was ye? and wha was ye wi'?" 'Janet, ye hae little pity for me; if I should crack ane o' my pins (limbs) ye maybe think, because I'm a shaver,o' corks, that I can easily mak' a new ane — -but, Janet, fu' o' curiosity too! woman, it's a dangerous thing to be ower inquisitive—ye mind what the mither o'us a' got by't; besides, 'Gied,' as honest Rabbie Burns says, 'the infant world a shug, maist ruined a'-oh, but it is a pithy word that shug! there's no a part o' speech in the English tongue like it." "Whaur was ye, John, whaur? I doubt ye hae been in ill company, this night-ye never put me aff this way before; will ye no tell me, John?" "Weel, weel, Janet, dinna be sae toutit about it-I was awa' at a burial." "At a burial, John!-what burial could there be at this hour? It could be nae decent body, I'm sure, that had to be huddled awa' at sic an untimeous time o' nicht." "'Deed, Janet, you're richt there; she was a very troublesome kind o' body, and raised muckle discord amang families; we were a' saying, she's weel awa' if she bide." "But wha is she?" "Just our auld frien' ANNIE, and she never cam' about the house but ill weather was sure to follow; now, I think ye may guess.' Ay, puir body!—has she win awa' at length, puir creature? Annie! Annie !—oh aye, but whan I mind-there's mae Annies than ane— was it Annie Spittle?" "Oh no, it wasna her, poor body!" "Was it Annie Dinwiddie?"

"No; that woman's din is enough to drive ony man to the wuddie." "Weel, John, I ken nae mae o' the name; but I see you're just trying, as usual, to mak' game o' me. Waes me! it's a hard thing to be keepit sae lang out o' my bed to

be made a fou man's fool."

Says John, "no ane that ye hae nam'd 's the lassie that
I mean-

Ae Annie yet, my dearest doo, ye hae forgotten clean;
We buried ANI-MOSITY—an trouth I thought it fit,
That whan we had her in the yird, a skinfu' I should get."

OUR FAIR YOUNG QUEEN.

AIR-"Caledonia."

O! SCOTLAND's hills are bonny hills,
A' clad wi' heather bells,
And music warbles in the rills

Which sport adown the dells;
And there be glens in fair Scotland
Where foe hath never been,

And wild and free we'll keep them yet
For our young Queen!

O! wad she cross the Tweed some day,
Our Scottish glens to view,

Our fairy lakes and streamlets grey,
Lone isles and mountains blue.
And see auld Scotland's goodly bands,
Wi' belt and buckle sheen,

In proud array come forth to greet
Their fair young Queen!

For Scotland has her yeomen leal,

And sturdy loons they be,

That whirl, like willow wands, their steel, When marshall'd on the lea.

And should a foe invade our soil,

No braver band, I ween,

Would fight beneath the banners broad
Of our young Queen!

And Scotland has her clansmen brave,
Who bear the targe and brand;
Who'd spend their dearest blood to save
Their own romantic land.

And they would leave their hills of mist,
And glens of lovely green,

To form a living bulwark round

Their fair young Queen!

And Scotland has her lovely ones,

A beauteous train are they;

But much she mourns her tuneful sons,
Her bards and minstrels grey.

For they who wak'd hef sweetest lyres,
Sleep 'neath the turf so green,
We've few to sing the welcome now
Of our young Queen!

We've heard of merry England's scenes,
And trusty souls are there;
And Erin boasts her green domains,
Rich woods, and prospects fair.
But Scotland boasts her stormy hills,
Where freemen aye have been,
O come and let us doat on thee,

Our fair young Queen!

James Murray

OUR BRAW UNCLE.

Set to Music by Peter M'Leod, Esq.

My auld uncle Willie cam' doun here frae Lunnon,
An' wow, but he was a braw man;

An' a' my puir cousins around him cam rinnin',
Frae mony a lang mile awa', man.

My uncle was rich, my uncle was proud

He spak' o' his gear, and he bragg'd o' his gowd;
An' whate'er he hinted, the puir bodies vow'd
They wad mak' it their love an' their law, man.

He stay'd wi' them a' for a week time about,
Feastin', an fuddlin', an' a', man,