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 the auld meal mill.

At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,
Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';
Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until
The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.

I hae listen'd to music--ilk varying tone,
Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;
But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.

Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!
Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!
Bless the miller--wha often, wi' heart and good-will,
Fills the widow's toom pock at 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 summer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.

THE THISTLE.

Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!

'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;
'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.

Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land--
On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand--
On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,
May the thistle be seen where the thistle should b