The Coorse Cratur.

The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men Throu Jericho the bonny; 'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken Mang sons o' men sae mony: The wee bit son o' man Zacchay To see the Maister seekit; He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy, An' sae his shortness ekit. But as he thoucht to see his back, Roun turnt the haill face til 'im, Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak— His hert gaed like to kill 'im. "Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel; This nicht I want a lodgin." Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell, Nor needit ony nudgin. But up amang the unco guid There rase a murmurin won'er: "This is a deemis want o' heed, The man's a special sinner!" Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze: "Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it; Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees, Fourfauld again I pay it!" Then Jesus said, "This is a man! His hoose I'm here to save it; He's are o' Abraham's ain clan, An' siclike has behavit! I cam the lost to seek an' win."— Zacchay was are he wantit: To ony man that left his sin His grace he never scantit.