_I Ken Something._

What gars ye sing sae, birdie, As gien ye war lord o' the lift? On breid ye're an unco sma' lairdie, But in hicht ye've a kingly gift!

A' ye hae to coont yersel rich in 'S a wee mawn o' glory-motes! The whilk to the throne ye're aye hitchin Wi a lang tow o' sapphire notes!

Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angel For a sinfu' thrapple no meet, Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet!

But though ye canna behaud, birdie, Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht! I'm noucht but a hirplin herdie, But I hae a sang i' my breist!

Len' me yer throat to sing throu, Len' me yer wings to gang hie, And I'll sing ye a sang a laverock to cow, And for bliss to gar him dee!

MIRLS.

The stars are steady abune; I' the water they flichter and flee; But, steady aye, luikin doon They ken theirsels i' the sea.

A' licht, and clear, and free, God, thou shinest abune; Yet luik, and see thysel in me, Aye on me luikin doon.

* * * * *

Throu the heather an' how gaed the creepin thing, But abune was the waff o' an angel's wing.

* * * * *

Hither an' thither, here an' awa, Into the dub ye maunna fa'; Oot o' the dub wad ye come wi' speed, Ye maun lift yer han's abune yer heid.

* * * * *

Whaur's nor sun nor mune, Laigh things come abune.

* * * * *

My thouchts are like worms in a starless gloamin My hert's like a sponge that's fillit wi' gall; My soul's like a bodiless ghaist sent a roamin I' the haar an' the mirk till the trumpet call.

Lord, turn ilk worm til a butterflee, Wring oot my hert, an' fill 't frae thy ain; My soul syne in patience its weird will dree, An' luik for the mornin throu the rain.

THE END.