trength their toils reward,
And should misfortune's gales blow hard,
Our task will be to plant a guard
Or guide them to the tee, boys.
Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,
Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,
Here 's three times three for beef an' greens--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,
A glorious sicht to see, boys--
Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';
Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;
Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.

THE AULD MEAL MILL.

The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;
Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,
Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;
Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill
That ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.

When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,
The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;
The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,
Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.

The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,
The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;
The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,
Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.

Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Caesar kens weel
When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;
But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will
The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.

There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill--
They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill--
But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still
Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.

When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,
Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;
The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,
A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.

Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,
The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;
Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill--
There 's some capital shots near t