Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;[177]
But little wist she Maggie's mettle--
Ae spring brought aff her master hale,[178]
But left behind her ain gray tail;
The carlin[179] claught[180] her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

[Footnote 150: Peddler fellows.]
[Footnote 151: Thirsty.]
[Footnote 152: Road home.]
[Footnote 153: Ale.]
[Footnote 154: Full.]
[Footnote 155: Uncommonly.]
[Footnote 156: Swamps.]
[Footnote 157: Gaps in a hedge.]
[Footnote 158: One.]
[Footnote 159: Good-for-nothing.]
[Footnote 160: Babbling.]
[Footnote 161: Gossip.]
[Footnote 162: Every time corn was sent to the mill.]
[Footnote 163: Driven.]
[Footnote 164: Makes me weep.]
[Footnote 165: Must.]
[Footnote 166: Such.]
[Footnote 167: Leaped and flung.]
[Footnote 168: Stared and fidgeted with eagerness.]
[Footnote 169: Hitched about.]
[Footnote 170: Then.]
[Footnote 171: Lost.]
[Footnote 172: Fuss.]
[Footnote 173: Hive.]
[Footnote 174: Deserts.]
[Footnote 175: Bridge.]
[Footnote 176: Devil.]
[Footnote 177: Aim.]
[Footnote 178: Whole.]
[Footnote 179: Hag.]
[Footnote 180: Caught.]

JOHN ANDERSON.

John Anderson, my jo,[181] John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;[182]
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty[183] day, John,
We've had wi' are anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

[Footnote 181: Sweetheart.]
[Footnote 182: Smooth]
[Footnote 183: Merry.]

* * * * *

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

SONNET.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers--
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear o