of winter, when stormy winds do roar,
And the fierce dashing waves are heard on Ayr's old craggy shore,
The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire,
Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;
And sing how Coila's genius on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

John o'f' Bog an' Keighley Feffy Goast:
A TALE O' POVERTY

"Some books are lies fra end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd;
But this that I am gaun to tell,
* * * Lately on a night befel."--BURNS.

'Twor twelve o'clock wun winter's neet,
Net far fra Kersmas time,
When I met wee this Feffy Goast,
The subject of mi rhyme.

I'd been hard up fer monny a week,
Mi way I cuddant see,
Fer trade an' commerce wor as bad
As ivver they could be.

T'poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,
An' t'combers wor quite sick,
Fer weeks they nivver pool'd a slip,
Ner t'weivers wave a pick.

An' I belong'd ta t'latter lot,
An' them wor t'war o't' two,
Fer I'd nine pair o' jaws i' t'haase,
An nowt for 'em ta do.

T'owd wife at t' time wor sick i' bed,
An' I'd a shockin' cowd,
Wal t'youngest barn we hed at home,
Wor nobbut three days owd.

Distracted to mi varry heart,
At sitch a bitter cup,
An' lippenin' ivvery day at com,
At summat wod turn up;

At last I started off wun neet,
To see what I could mak;
Determin'd I'd hev summat ta eit,
Or else I'd noan go back.

Through t'Skantraps an' be t' Bracken Benk,
I tuke wi' all mi meet;
Be t' Wire Mill an' Ingrow Loin,
Reight into t' oppen street.

Saint John's Church spire then I saw,
An' I wor rare an' fain,
Fer near it stood t'owd parsonage--
I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went ta t' Wicket Gate,
Though sad I am ta say it,
Resolv'd to ax 'em for some breead,
Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shackin' it,
A form raase up before,
An' sed "What does ta want, tha knave,
Shackin' t' Wicket Door?"

He gav me then ta understand,
If I hedant come to pray,
At t'grace o' God an' t'breead o' life,
Wor all they gav away.

It's fearful nice fer folk ta talk
Abaat ther breead o' life,
An' specially when they've plenty,
Fer t'childer an' ther wife.

Bud I set off ageean at t'run,
Fer I weel understood,
If I gat owt fra that thear clahn,
It woddant do ma good.

I' travellin' on I thowt I heeard,
As I went nearer t'tahn,