Volume I Part 21 (1/2)

When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve: I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can Trembling . . . she brought it To screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan, And therefore doubly kind I thought it.

XIV

I've never lost the taste of that same tea: That liquor on my logic floats like oil, When I state facts, and fellows disagree.

For human creatures all are in a coil; All may want pardon.

I see a day when every pot will boil Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!

XV

We wait the setting of the Dandy's day, Before that time!--He's furbis.h.i.+ng his dress, - He WILL be ready for it!--and I say, That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, - Thanks to hard labour! - If cleanliness is next to G.o.dliness, The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!

XVI

You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!

I've looked on my superiors far too long, And small has been my profit as my joy.

You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong.

Prosper me later!

Like you I will despise the sn.i.g.g.e.ring throng, And please myself and my Creator.

XVII

I'll bring the linendraper and his wife Some day to see you; taking off my hat.

Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my life I never found so true a democrat.

Base occupation Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat!

I'll preach you to the British nation.

SONG

Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes!

And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.

Should thy love die; O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow!

And breezes go by, With no whisper of woe; And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.

Should thy love die; O wander once more to the haunt of the bee!

Where the foliaged sky Is most sacred to see, And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.

Should thy love die; O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn!

While the lark sings on high, And no thing looks forlorn, Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.

TO ALEX. SMITH, THE 'GLASGOW POET,' ON HIS SONNET TO 'FAME'

Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man Call for the thing that is his pure desire!

Fame is the birthright of the living lyre!