Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle;

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,

And justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,
And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin,
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin',
And naething now to big a new ane
O' foggage green,

And bleak December's winds ensuin',
Baith snell and keen.

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

And weary winter comin' fast,

And cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed

Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain
For promised joy.

Still thou art bless'd compared wi' me;
The present only toucheth thee;

But, och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear;

And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear.

THE MISER'S DEATH.

OSBORNE.

Note.-In France, during the year 1762, a miser by the name of Foscue, having amassed enormous wealth by extortion and parsimony, was requested by the government to advance a sum of money as a loan. The miser refused, pretending that he was poor. In order to hide his money, he dug a deep cellar under his hut, the descent to which was by a ladder. To the trap-door above he attached a spring-lock. He entered, one day, to gloat over his gold; the trap-door fell, the spring-lock snapped, and he died miserably.

So, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers!
Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!
No keen-eyed agent of the government

Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,
To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,

For the state's needs. Ha! ha! my shining pets,
My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!
Too well I loved you to do that; and so

I pleaded poverty, and none could prove
My story was not true.

Ha! could they see

These bags of ducats, and that precious pile

Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold,

Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort

Is it to see my moneys in a heap,

All safely lodged under my very roof!

Here's a fat bag-let me untie the mouth of it.

What eloquence! What beauty!

Could Cicero so plead?

One half so charming?

What expression!

Could Helen look

(The trap-door falls.)

Ah! what sound was that?

The trap-door fallen? and the spring-lock caught?

Well, have I not the key?

"Tis in this pocket. No.

Of course I have!

In this? No. Then

I left it at the bottom of the ladder.

Ha! 'tis not there. Where, then? Ah! mercy, Heaven! "Tis in the lock outside!

What's to be done?

Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that I
Had not discharged old Simon! but he begged
Each week for wages-would not give me credit.
I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!
I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks
As force it open. Am I here a prisoner,

And no one in the house-no one at hand,
Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries?

Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate!

I sink-I faint beneath the bare conception! (Swoons.)

(Awakes.) Darkness! Where am I? I remember now: This is a bag of ducats-'tis no dream

No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I,
Immured with my dear gold-my candle out—
All gloom-all silence-all despair! What ho!

Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have I
To use the name? These money-bags have been
The only friends I've cared for, and for these

I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed, shutting my heart
To charity, humanity, and love!

Detested traitors! since I gave you all—

Ay, gave my very soul-can ye do naught

For me in this extremity? Ho! without there!

A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread!

Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water!

A pile of ingots for a helping hand!

Was that a laugh? Ay, 'twas a fiend that laughed
To see a miser in the grip of death!

Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will give
In alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thou

In this most dreadful strait!

I'll build a church

A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late!
Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him!
Heaven will not hear-why should it? What have I
Done to enlist Heaven's favor?-to help on

Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes?
Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the sooner
For any work or any prayer of mine.

But must I die here-in my own trap caught? Die-die? and then! Oh mercy! grant me timeThou who canst save-grant me a little time, And I'll redeem the past-undo the evil That I have done-make thousands happy with This hoarded treasure-do thy will on earth As it is done in heaven-grant me but time! Nor man nor God will hear my shrieks! All's lost!

LITTLE BENNY.

A Christmas Carol.

I had told him Christmas morning,
As he sat upon my knee,
Holding fast his little stockings,
Stuffed as full as full could be,
And attentive, listening to me,
With a face demure and mild,
That old Santa Claus, who filled them,
Did not love a naughty child.

"But we'll be dood, won't we, moder?"
And from off my lap he slid,
Digging deep among the goodies
In his crimson stockings hid,
While I turned me to my table,
Where a tempting goblet stood,
Brimming high with dainty custard
Sent me by a neighbor good.

But the kitten, there before me,
With his white paw, nothing loth,

Sat, by way of entertainment,
Slapping off the shining froth;
And, in not the gentlest humor

At the loss of such a treat,

I confess I rather rudely

Thrust him out into the street.