Then upped and spake our pawkie bow,
        —­O, but he wasna late! 
    ’Now who shall gar them cry Enow,
        That gang this fearsome gate?’

     Syne he has ta’en his boatin’ cap,
        And cast the keevils in,
     And wha but me to gae (God hap!)
        And stay our Captain’s din?

     I stayed his din by the meadow-gate,
        His feres’ by Nuneham brig,
     And waefu’, waefu’, was the fate
        That gar’d them there to lig!

     O, waly to the welkin’s top! 
        And waly round the braes! 
     And waly all about the shop
       (To use a Southron phrase).

     Rede ither crews be debonair,
        But we ’ve a weird to dree,
     I wis we maun be bumpit sair
        By boaties two and three: 
     Sing stretchers of yew for our Toggere,
        Sith we maun bumpit be!

THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL.

     Adown the torturing mile of street
        I mark him come and go,
     Thread in and out with tireless feet
        The crossings to and fro;
     A soul that treads without retreat
        A labyrinth of woe.

     Palsied with awe of such despair,
        All living things give room,
     They flit before his sightless glare
        As horrid shapes, that loom
     And shriek the curse that bids him bear
        The symbol of his doom.

     The very stones are coals that bake
        And scorch his fevered skin;
     A fire no hissing hail may slake
        Consumes his heart within. 
     Still must he hasten on to rake
        The furnace of his sin.

     Still forward! forward!  For he feels
        Fierce claws that pluck his breast,
     And blindly beckon as he reels
        Upon his awful quest: 
     For there is that behind his heels
        Knows neither ruth nor rest.

     The fiends in hell have flung the dice;
        The destinies depend
     On feet that run for fearful price,
        And fangs that gape to rend;
     And still the footsteps of his Vice
        Pursue him to the end:—­
     The feet of his incarnate Vice
        Shall dog him to the end.

‘BEHOLD!  I AM NOT ONE THAT GOES TO LECTURES.’

By W. W.

     Behold!  I am not one that goes to Lectures or the pow-wow of
        Professors.

     The elementary laws never apologise:  neither do I apologise.

     I find letters from the Dean dropt on my table—­and every one is
        signed by the Dean’s name—­

     And I leave them where they are; for I know that as long as I
        stay up

     Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

     I am one who goes to the river,

     I sit in the boat and think of ‘life’ and of ‘time.’