Part 3 (2/2)

And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true, Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!_

_O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie That gars the wind gae soon; Or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e, Ye be sae stricken doun?_

I hae na suppit the sad sherrie, For a' my heart is sair; For Keiller's still i' the bonnie Dundee, And his is halesome fare.

But I hae slain our gude Captain, That c'uld baith shout and sweer, And ither twain put out o' pain-- The Scribe and Treasurere.

There's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate, And twa by the black, black brig: And waefu', waefu', was the fate That gar'd them there to lig!

They waked us soon, they warked us lang, Wearily did we greet; '_Should he abrade_' was a' our sang, Our food but butcher's-meat.

We hadna train'd but ower a week, A week, but barely twa, Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek, That mightna gar them fa'.

They 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse, And wow! but it was wark; And ilka coach he sware him hoorse, That ilka man s'uld hark.

Then upped and spake our pawkie bow, --O, but he wasna late!

'Now who shall gar them cry _Enow_, That gang this fearsome gate?'

Syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap, And cast the keevils in, And wha but me to gae (G.o.d hap!) And stay our Captain's din?

I stayed his din by the meadow-gate, His feres' by Nuneham brig, And waefu', waefu', was the fate That gar'd them there to lig!

O, waly to the welkin's top!

And waly round the braes!

And waly all about the shop (To use a Southron phrase).

Rede ither crews be debonair, But we 've a weird to dree, I wis we maun be b.u.mpit sair By boaties two and three: Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere, Sith we maun b.u.mpit be!

THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL.

Adown the torturing mile of street I mark him come and go, Thread in and out with tireless feet The crossings to and fro; A soul that treads without retreat A labyrinth of woe.

Palsied with awe of such despair, All living things give room, They flit before his sightless glare As horrid shapes, that loom And shriek the curse that bids him bear The symbol of his doom.

The very stones are coals that bake And scorch his fevered skin; A fire no hissing hail may slake Consumes his heart within.

Still must he hasten on to rake The furnace of his sin.

Still forward! forward! For he feels Fierce claws that pluck his breast, And blindly beckon as he reels Upon his awful quest: For there is that behind his heels Knows neither ruth nor rest.

The fiends in h.e.l.l have flung the dice; The destinies depend On feet that run for fearful price, And fangs that gape to rend; And still the footsteps of his Vice Pursue him to the end:-- The feet of his incarnate Vice Shall dog him to the end.

'BEHOLD! I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.'

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