Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,

"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his

friend,

Said, Toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,

And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
But for wine and for welcome not more known
to fame

Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ;

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,

Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles apiece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;
A high ruling-elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with Fate and quart-bumpers contend?

Though Fate said-A hero shall perish in light; So up rose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

66

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink : Craigdarroch, thou'll soar when creation shall sink!

But if thou wouldst flourish immortal in rhyme, Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime!

66

Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom

with Bruce,

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

R. BURNS.

Last May

a

Braw Wooer

LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;

I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me!
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

He spak o' the darts in my bonie black e'en,
And vow'd for my love he was dying;

I said he might die when he liked for Jean,
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stocked mailen-himsel for the laird—
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers :
I never loot on that I ken'd it, or cared,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,

But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less-
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her,
could bear her,

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a' the niest week, as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock,

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!

I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin',

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet,

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a

swearin',

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'!