Now do thy speedy utmost Meg,
  And win the key-stane of the brig;[175]
  There at them thou thy tail may toss,
  A running stream they dare na cross,
  But ere the key-stane she could make,
  The fient[176] a tale she had to shake,
  For Nannie, far before the rest,
  Hard upon noble 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 old Triton blow his wreathed horn.