But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be- When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery— When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain O! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. JOHN MOULTRIE. The Annuity. I GAED to spend a week in Fife- Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell; I sell't her an annuity. The bargain lookit fair eneugh She just was turned o' saxty-three- But years have come, and years have gane, She 's crined' awa' to bane and skin, She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, But comes, as sure as Christmas comes, To ca' for her annuity. I read the tables drawn wi' care But tables here or tables there, She's lived ten years beyond her share, Last Yule she had a fearfu' host, I thought a kink might set me free— I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, Wi' constant assiduity. But deil ma' care-the blast gaed by, If there's a sough o' cholera, Or typhus,—wha sae gleg as she? She doesna need-she 's fever proof- Ae day she fell, her arm she brak— It's cured! She handles 't like a flail- It does as weel in bits as hale But I'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity. Her broozled flesh and broken banes They die when they 're exposed to air, If mortal means could nick her thread, I'd justify 't-an' do it tae. That 's carved out o' the tree of life- I'd try a shot--but whar's the mark? She might be drowned; but go she 'll not Or hanged-if cord could grip a throat It's fitter far to hang the rope It draws out like a telescope; 'T wad tak' a dreadfu' length o' drop To settle her annuity. Will poison do it? It has been tried, 13 That 's just the dish she can't abide, It's needless to assail her doubts, The Bible says the age o' man Threescore and ten, perchance, may be; She should hae lived afore the flood- She 's been embalmed inside and oot- Sae caper-like an' cruety. Lot's wife was fresh compared to her- She canna decompose-nae mair The water-drop wears out the rock, It 's pay me here, an' pay me there, GEORGE OUTRAM. The Forging of the Anchor. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged; 't is at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe; It rises, roars, rends all outright,-O Vulcan, what a glow! 'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing mon ster slow Sinks on the anvil,-all about the faces fiery grow,— "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out: bang, bang, the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!" |