?--
This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof
If you hadna' a roof to your cave

Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves--
Whose meal will you have in your bag?

Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush--
Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man--
His fame for the thieving is gone
To the reivers and rogues of your clan

You'll spare me "so old and so frail,
Fitter to die than to live?"
But maybe I'll slay with the tongue
And the heart that will never forgive

The curse of the frail will be strong,
The curse of the widow be sure;
O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,
Black, black is the curse of the poor!

Ha! laugh at your ease while you can--
Laugh! it's the devil's turn next--
For after I'm done with you all,
O who will be doleful and vext?

Bare-kneed on the ground will I go--
My hair on my shoulders let fall,
Now hear me and never forget
My curses I'll cast on you all

_Little increase to your clan!
The down-mouth to you and to yours!
The blight on your little black cave!
The luck o' a Friday on moors!

Fire upon land be your lot!
Drowning in storm on the deep!
Leave not a son to succeed!
Leave not a daughter to weep!

Here's the bad meeting to you!
Death without priest be your fate!
Go to your grandfather's[3] house--
The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_

[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]

[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan--A famous thief]

[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"--The grave]

[Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"--The devil]

LEOBAG'S[1] WARNING.

Would Murdo make the wry mouth?
Is Ailie cross-eyed?
O mock no more the beggar man,
You'll scorn wi' pride!
The wind that will be blowing west,
Might turn and blow south--
O, Ailie, it would fix your eyes
And Murdo's wry mouth.

O mind ye o' the Leobag
And yon rock cod--
"Ho! there's the mouth," the 'cute one cried,
"For the hook and rod!"
The tide it would be turning while
The Leobag would mock--
And that is why it's gaping as
It gaped below the rock.

[Footnote 1: Leobag--The flounder.]

TOBER MHUIRE.

(WELL OF ST MARY.)

'Tis for thee I will be pining,
_Tober Mhuire_.
Thou art deep and sweet and shining,
_Tober Mhuire_.
In the dimness I'll be dying,
And my soul for thee is sighing
With the blessings on thee lying--
_T