The walis wes heich, we culd not weil pursew thame ;
Bot quhen we gat thame doun, full deir thay bocht it :
Be syde the woll, at sundrie tymes, we slew thame :
That euer they saw vs, sum of thame forthocht it,
Ane poysonit woll to drink, quhat docht it?
Infekit watter sowllit thame, cheik and chin :
Persauing that sorrow, mair they socht it,
Bot keppit standfulis at the sklatis thair in.

The castel segit, and all beset about
With fowseyis wyde inuironit be slycht,
Montanis and myndis, leit neuer man luik out;
For ordinance thay dang at day and nycht,
By weirlyk volyis; thocht the wallis wes wycht,
Zit dowball battrie brak thame all in inschis:
Of Daueis toure, in all the toune menis sycht,
Thay riggan stanes come tumland ouir the trinschis.

The vehement schot zeid in at either syde,

By threttie cannonis plasit at partis seuin;

Quhill thay thair in mycht not thair heidis hyde,

For pot gun pellettis falland from the heuin :

The bumbard stanis directit fell sa euin,
That in to dykes by dint it deidly dang thame;
Quhill all the houssis in the place wes reuin,
The bullatis brak sa in to bladis amang thame.

Lord Sempill.

THE PACK-MAN'S PATER-NOSTER.

Pack-man. But good Sir John, where learn'd our Lady her

Latins ?

For in her days were neither mass nor matins,
Nor yet one Priest that Latin then did speak,
For holy words were then all Hebrew and Greek.
She never was at Rome, nor kiss'd Pope's toe :
How came she by the mass, then I would know?

Priest. Pack-man, if thou believe the Legendary,

The mass is elder far than Christ or Mary:

For all the Patriarchs, both more and less,

And great Melchisedeck himself said mass.

Pack-man. But, good Sir John, spake all these fathers Latin? And said they mass in surplices and satin?

Could they speak Latin, long ere Latin grew ?

And without Latin no mass can be true.

And as for heretics that now translate it,

False miscreants, they shame the mass, and slight it.
Priest. Well, Pack-man, faith thou art too curious,
Thy purblind zeal, fervent, but furious,

I'd rather teach a whole convent of monks,

Than such a Pack-man with his Puritan spunks.

Sir James Sem pill.

EPITAPH ON HABBIE SIMPSON.

Kilbarchan now may say alace!

For scho hes lost hir game and grace,
Bayth Trixie and the Maidin-trace,

Bot quhat remeid!

For na man can supply his place;

Hab Simpson's deid.

Now quha shall play, The day it dawis,
Or, Hunt up, quhen the cock he crawis;
Or quha can, for owr kirk-townis caus,
Stand us in steid?

On bag-pypis now na body blawis,

Sen Habbie's deid.

Or, quha will caus our scheirers scheir?
Quha will bang up the bragis of weir,
Bring in the bellis, or gude play meir,

In time of need?

Hab Simpson cou'd. Quhat neid ye spcir?

But now he's deid.

Sae kyndly to his nichbouris neist,
At Beltane and Sanct Barchan's feast,
He blew, and then hald up his briest
As he war weid;

But now we neid na him arreist,

For Habbie's deid.

At fairis he playit befoir the speir-men,
All gaillie graithit in thair geir, quhen
Steill bonetis, jakis, and swordis sa cleir then,
Lyke ony beid;

Now quha shall play befoir sic weir-men
Sen Habbie's deid?

At Clark-playis, quhen he wont to cum,
His pype playit trimlie to the drum;
Lyke bykes of beis he gart it bum

An tuneit his reid;

Bot now our pypes may a' sing dum,

Sen Habbie's deid.

And at hors racis mony a day,

Befoir the blak, the brown, and gray;

He gart his pypis quhan he did play,

Bayth skirl and screid;

Now al sic pastymis quyte away,

Sen Habbie's deid.

He countit was ane weild wicht man,

And ferslie at fute-ball he ran:

At everie game the gre he wan

For pith and speid;

The lyke of Habbie was na then;

But now he's deid.

And then besyde his valyiant actis,
At bridalis he wan mony plackis;
He bobbit aye behind fowks bakis,

And schuke his heid;

Now we want mony merrie crackis
Sen Habbie's deid.

Hee was convoyer o' the bryde,
Wi' Kittock hingand at his syde ;
About the kirk he thocht a pryde
The ring to leid;

Now we maun gae but ony guyde,

For Habbie's deid.

Sa weill's he keipit his decorum,
And all the stotis of Quhip-Meg-Morum;
He slew a man, and waes me for him,
And bure the feid;

And yet the man wan hame befoir him,
And wasna deid.

Aye quhen he playit, the lassis leuch
To sie him teethless, auld, and teuch;
He wan his pypis beside Bar-cleuch,

Withoutein dreid;

Quhilk efter wan hym gear eneuch,
But now he's deid.

Aye quhan he playit the gaitlings gedderit,
And quhan he spak, the carll bladderit ;
On Sabbath-dayis his cape was fedderit,
A seimlie weid;

In the Kirk-yeird his meir stude tedderit,
Quhar he lyis deid.

Alace! for him my heart is sair,
For of his spryngis I gat a skair,
At everie play, race, feist, and fair,

But gyle or greid ;

We need not look for pyping mair

Sen Habbie's deid.*

Robert Sempill

• We refer to the Visitor, published at Greenock, for Notes, explanatory of this Epitaph, and also to the Paisley Repository.-Editor.

H

THE BLYTHSUM BRIDAL.

Fy let us a' to the bridal,

For there will be lilting there;
For Jockie's to be marry'd to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gouden hair.
And there will be lang-kail and pottage,
And bannocks of barley meal,
And there will be good saut herring,

To relish a cog of good ale.

Fy let us a' to the bridal,

For there will be lilting there,
For Jockie's to be marry'd to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gouden hair.

And there will be Sandie the sutor,
And Will wi' the meikle mou ;
And there will be Tam the blutter,
Wi' Andrew the tinkler, I trow;
And there will be bow'd-legged Robbie,
Wi' thumbless Kattie's goodman ;
And there will be blue-cheeked Dobbie,
And Lawrie the laird of the land.
Fy let us a', &c.

And there will be sow-libber Pattie,
And ploukie-fac'd Wat in the mill,
Capper-nos'd Francie, and Gibbie

That wins in the how of the hill;
And there will be Alaster Sibbie,
Wha in wi' black Bessie did mool,

Wi' snivelling Lilly, and Tibby—-
The lass that stands aft on the stool.
Fy let us a', &c.

And Madge that was buckled to Steenie,
And coft him grey breeks to his a―e,
Wha after was hangit for stealing,
Great mercy it happen'd na warse :