The MacEwen clan was there, sir,
Emblem'd by spirit rare, sir,

Charming every heart and ear there,
Singing on St. Andrew's.

John Kinnear, MacKay, and Keeley,
Cut and cabbaged pretty freely;
In them each enough for three lay,
Keeping up St. Andrew's!

To our host, small gain could grow out
Of such forks as Scott and Mowat ;-
By the powers, but they did "stow" it
Fiercely on St. Andrew's !

With the haggis fairly stuffed there,

Losh, how Rammage groaned and puffed there! The mere flavour o't set Duff there

Dancing on St. Andrew's.

Little wonder though old Dixon,

Lured by Drummond's hot-scotch mixing,

Took of it enough for six in,

Gladly, on St. Andrew's.

'Twas no feast of scones and scuddan

Made MacDonald to unbutton;

Dan on sheep's-head plays the glutton

Aye at a St. Andrew's.

Far too narrow for his orbit

Was the door to Sheriff Corbett

With the good things he absorbéd
With us on St. Andrew's.

When the bree had thawed Carruthers,
Who but he above all others
Claiming all mankind for brothers,
Blythly on St. Andrew's !

Not one Saxon guest attended
But spake Erse ere all was ended;
Pat, of course, is "Scotch-descended "
Always on St. Andrew's.

The finale-fitting close there-
Was a dance of Macs and O.'s, sir,
Ending with three grand hurros there

For our next St. Andrew's.

IN MEMORIAM

OF DR. LAYCOCK, OF WOODSTOCK, ONTARIO.

My Laycock's star already set!

Laycock the gifted and the good!

In thought, I seem to see thee yet
Where last we met, by Mersey's flood.

Our steps were then on England's soil,-
Thou, from thy kindred far away,
Donning thine armour for the toil
And tug of life's stern battle-day.

With gifts that well might make thee brave
All obstacles to fair renown,

Alas, that thy untimely grave

Should cheat thee of the laurel crown!

Alas, that on thy path to save

Others, thine own dear life was lost!
How must thy friends across the wave

Mourn, when the tale shall reach their coast!

MacLennan, Greatrex, Strype, MacBride,
And Bailey too—that gifted one
Whose ardent spirit, eagle-eyed,

*

Has often soared where thou hast gone.

If grief could aught avail, there's room
Abundant to indulge it here;

Could but their prayers avert his doom,
The suffering still were Laycock's care.

How vain this stage of life! Its hopes
How evanescent! All seems gay,

When, unannounced, the curtain drops,

And man, the actor, turns to clay.

* Members of the Liverpool Athenic Club-a literary society of which Dr. Laycock and the author of Festus were at one time the leading spirits.

Peace to the dead! However keen
Our sorrow for the early lost,
There's less for grief than glory in
A soldier dying at his post.

A TIME THAT YET SHALL BE.

(Written on the advent of the year 1877.)

HAIL, new-born Year! Although I may not greet thee
With bacchanalian chanting loud and vain,
Yet not the less right glad am I to meet thee,
And give thee welcome, though in soberer strain.

I bless thee for the promise thou art bringing
Of angry nations sheathing up their swords.—
Wisely resolved, for discords 'mong them springing,
To make their battle-fields be Council Boards:

Fair prelude to that time when, wholly ceasing
From War's dread work, men shall see, satisfied,
Nature's rude forces all employed in blessing,
Power protecting where it once destroyed.

Joy to the year that comes with such sweet voicing
Of earth's march onward to that happy goal
When her Immanuel King shall see, rejoicing,

The full fruit of the travail of his soul,—

That time millenial when all earth shall own him

Her Sovereign Lord supreme, the Prince of Peace,The sons of those who once with thorns did crown Him The first to share the richness of His grace!

Not as the monarch vainly wished by Judah,
But as the Victor over Death and Sin
Shall Zion hail, 'mid many a hallelujah,
The Lord of Life once more her gates within.

Well may, the joy be great on Mount Moriah;
Well may, in Him, at last poor Israel see
Not hers alone but the whole world's Messiah,
And gladly own the Lord her God is He.

Time that shall change all rancour and division
To holy concord and assurance blest,—

Time that shall give our earth, 'mid peace elysian,
From sin and sorrow a long Sabbath rest!—

Time of the light and glory all-illuming!

Era of bliss unmatched since Eden's day! No wonder that the hope of thy sure coming Finds joyful utterance in the Poet's lay.

Well might the Seer of old, the future glassing,
Be lost in rapture thy approach to see;

If then to him it was a joy surpassing,
What to our surer vision should it be?