A POLITICAL SONG.
(By a Man of no Party.)

Is there for Whig and Tory men
Who fumes and frets and a' that,
Who dips in gall his loveless pen,
With wrath of man and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Their factions, feuds, and a' that;
In quiet nook we know to brook,
A fruitful life for a'that.

What though we make no mighty din
With place and power and a' that;
We wear, within a healthy skin,
An honest heart for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

There's outs and inns and a that;
Let Whig and Tory bark and bite,
The good cause wins for a' that!

You see yon loon who taks his stand
On blood and pedigree here,

And thinks the Lord God made the land
For him and his degree here,
For a' that, and a' that,

Their pridefu' pranks and a' that;
We turn the sod, and claim from God
Stout labours due for a' that.

You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy,
Of bright millennium dreaming here,
From equal votes to ragged coats,

And brainless men and women here;
For a' that, and a' that,

Their high-flown prate and a' that;
Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill,
Will rule the State for a' that.

You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad,
Who pleads the workmen's cause here,
And knows to surgeon all things bad,
With patent brand new laws here.
For a' that, and a' that,

Their Communistic brag here;
The sharpest eye, the game to spy,
Will make the biggest bag here.

You see yon lean and lanky lad,
Who flings his pulpit ban here,
Save the elect of his own sect,
On all the human clan here,
For a' that, and a' that,

Though priests may curse and ban here,
The God who sits in heaven shall laugh
At vain conceit of man here.

You see yon chiel who wags his tongue
And bobs his wig and a' that.

Though he can prove that right is wrong,
He's but a prig for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their shifty arts and a' that;

The pulse of right will beat with might,
In human hearts for a' that.

Then let us pray, though for a day

Wild seas may overwhelm here,
That counsel mild may bear the sway,
And wisdom hold the helm here!
For a' that and a' that,

Their party spite and a' that;
We'll win the fight for truth and right,
In God's own time for a' that.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE,

Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn., 1841-52. From Alma Mater: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885.

:0:

JENNY'S A WAT, POOR BODY. COMING through the rye, poor body,

Coming through the rye,

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Jenny's a' wat, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the world ken.

TAK CAULER WATER I. Gin a body meet a body, When he's passin' by, Need a body gar a body Drink that isna dry?

ROBERT BURNS.

Though ilka chap should tak his drap, Tak ne'er a drap wad I,

'Mang friens or faes for a' my days,

Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body,
Though to sell or buy,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?

Though yon big sea were barley-bree

Tak ne'er a drap wad I;

Abroad, at hame, its a' the same,

Tak cauler water I.

Gin a body meet a body
Whar folk wed or die,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?

Amang the gay, amang the wae,
Tak ne er a drap wad I;

The dram an' pray'r are queer-like fare-
Tak cauler water_I.

In the letter which accompanied this song, Professor Blackie stated that" Sam Sumph," was a great favorite with the Edinburgh Students, but that it had not previously been published. Another great favorite with the Students is the eminent Professor himself, whose handsome presence, and genial character are so well known in Auld Reekie. There is an anecdote related of him, that having to transact some private business one day, he left a label on his door: "Professor Blackie regrets that he cannot meet his classes to-day."

A Student coming up effaced the c, and left the message

Frae Dunnet Head he cam' for Greek,
Wi' sair thirst for the Greeking o't;
Brains he had na unco much,
His schooling was a crazy crutch,
But like the crab he had a clutch,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o't!

Latin Syntax vexed him sore,

When he tried the Greeking o't, For Cæsar stands at Homer's door When folks try the Greeking o't. Quod and ut he understood,

At "speech direct" they called him good,

But qui with the subjunctive mood

Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o't!

One thing truth commands to tell,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o't!

English he could hardly spell,

But what's that to the Greeking o't? English fits the vulgar clan, The buying and the selling man, But for the learned the only plan

Is a close grip at the Greeking o't. How he wandered through the verb,

It pains my tongue the speaking o't, He said it was a bitter herb,

When he tried the Greeking o't. Wi' mony a wrench and mony a screw, At last he warstled bravely through, All except a tense or two,

When he tried the Greeking o't!

How he fared with and av

When he tried the Greeking o't.

Aǹ and yɛ, and all their clan,

It's weel worth the speaking o't. These feckless dots of words, quo' he. They are nae bigger than a flea,

We'll skip them ow'r, and let them be,

They'll nae be missed at the Greeking o't!

A' the story for to tell,

Were nae end to the speaking o't,

But this thing in the end befell,

When he tried the Greeking o't;

Though his heart was free frae vice

(Men are sometimes trapped like mice), They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice, When he tried the Greeking o't!

Sair cast doun was learned Sam

At this end o' the Greeking o't;
He could dae nae mair wi' cram,

At this stage o' the Greeking o't,
But he was teugh as ony Scot,
He was plucked, but yield would not,
Sooner would he hang and rot,

Than thus be balked at the Grecking o't.

At the door he made a din,

Rap, rap, for the Greeking o't!

Is the Greek Professor in?

Yes, yes, for the Greeking o't!
Sam his plea wi' tears would win,
He fleeched and grat his een quite blin',
To pluck him twice was just a sin,

For a sma' fault at the Greeking o't!

Professor was a kindly man,

Ha, hi, the Greeking o't!

Felt for a' the student clan

That swat sair at the Greeking o't,
"Though your nae just in the van,
My heart is wae your worth to ban
Ye hae done the best ye can,

So ye may past at the Greeking o't!"

Sam Sumph is now M. A.,

Ha, ha, for the Greeking o't! He can preach and he can pray,

That's the fruit of the Greeking o't. He can thunder loud and fell, An awfu' power in him doth dwell, To ope and shut the gates of hell,

That's the prize o' the Greeking o't.

Wait a year and ye will see,

Ha, ha, the Greeking o't!

High upon the tap o' the tree,

Sam perch'd by the Greeking o't!

In the Kirk Assembly he

Sits as big as big can be,

Moderator Sam, D.D.,

That's the crown o' the Greeking o't!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

WE'VE dinners, sprees, concerts and glees,
As yearly they come roun' O!

We've social teas, and grand soirées,
For ever in the town, O!

The town, O! the town, O!
The lively, pleasant town, O!
There's healthy strife and active life,
There's spirit in the town, O!

Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme

How we will yet sit down, O!

And end our days in rural braes;
We'll never leave the town, O!

The town, O! the town, O!
The active, stirring town, O!
Old Zimmerman would change his plan

To live in Malvern town, Ŏ!

With men of state and merchants great,
And sages wise or witty, O!
CHORUS-Hey for social science, O!
Hey for social science, O!

When wisdom, wine, and wit combine,
They make a good alliance, O!

We meet to show that all below

To ruin fast is tending, O!

That laws and schools and prison rules
Are much in need of mending, O

Hey for social science, &c.

But though, no doubt, t'was well made out
That things are old and wheezy, O!
O cursed spite ! to set them right
Was not so very easy, O!

Hey for social science, &c.

Yet though the task may patience ask,
We're here convened to try it, O!
To see if schools will root out fools,
Or crime be cured by diet, O!

Hey for social science, &.

The blood-red sun had scarce begun
To shine out strong and hearty, O!
When up we rose and donned our clo'es
To join Bell's breakfast-party, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

Delicious doles of meat and rolls
Disposed to mirth and laughter, O!
The inspiring tea brought out Macnee,
And others followed after, O!

Hey for social science, &c.

When hunger's rage we thus assuage,
Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O!
Then, horse and foot, we take the route,
And hurry to the college, O!

Hey for social science, &c.

Here in we press for some address
That lasts two hours or longer, O!
And if a word is seldom heard,
The applause is all the stronger, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

The section meetings next we try,
Some worse and others better, O!
But if the days are somewhat dry,
The nights will prove the wetter, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

That sense alone conspicious shone
I can't declare in conscience, O!
But great's the use to introduce
A safety-valve for nonsense, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

A few who well their tale could tell
Did ably fill the rostrums, O!

While many a goose his clack let loose,

And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

Just ere the welcome hour of six
We gladly cut our cable, O!
And in some port of refuge fix,

Hard by a well spread table O!

Hey for social science, &c.

While all things good in drink and food
Our weary souls are chcering, O!
The ills of life, before so rife,
Seem quickly disappearing, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

Around us eyes and faces bright
Our softened hearts are winning, O!
Fair matrons in meridian light,
And morning stars beginning, O!
Hey for social science, O!

The best of social science, O!
Is when its power, in hall or bower,
To Beauty we affiance, O!

With ardour fired, by love inspired,

I rise and give "The Ladies," O!
And they who shrink the toast to drink
May hang and go to Hades, O!

Hey for social science, &c.

We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh,
Then part with tears and sighing, O!
And when at last the week is past
We're dead with mirth-or dying, O!
Hey for social science, &c.

But I ordain that soon again,
These pleasant hours repeating, O!
We learn some more of social lore
At such an evening meeting, O!

Hey for social science, O!

For genuine social science, O!
A summons here to recompear
Would find a quick compliance, O!

This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood's Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled "Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga," by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877

But yet, O L-
I'm fash'd wi' mad, ambitious lust,
Since me the doited fules still trust,
Thro' thick an' thin;
Sae I rave on, L, I'm but dust,
Forgie my sin.

Besides, I further maun allow,
Wi' Ireland, three times I trow,-
But L, my hands are always fu',
When I come near her,

Or else thou kens thy servant true

Wad safely steer her.

For their misdeeds.

my G, that glib-tongued Cowen, Wi' gall and bitterness o'erflowin', And a' the ruck sae forward growin'

Still mair an' mair; Wha keep thy servants' choler glowin', An' fill wi' fear.

L-, since I am sae plaguit by 'em,
Confound the loons wha' do employ 'em,
And in the day o' vengeance try 'em,
Heed not their prayer,
But for thy servant's sake destroy 'em
For evermair.

But, L, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, For aye let me and H-b-t shine,

Excell'd by nane,

And a' that glory shall be thine,

Amen, amen,

J. B. C., Northumberland,

The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, July 5, 1884.

THE FISHER'S WELCOME.

WE twa ha' fished the Kale sae clear,

And streams o' mossy Reed;

We've tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,

The Teviot and the Tweed;

An' we will try them ance again,

When summer suns are fine;

An' we'll throw the flies thegither yet,

For the days o' lang syne.

'Tis mony years sin' first we sat
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brither fisher's gane,
An' clad in his last claithes.
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,
Grim death he heucks us a';
But we'll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we're ta'en awa'.

For we are hale and hearty baith,
Tho' frosty are our pows,

We still can guide our fishing graith,

And climb the dykes and knowes;

We'll mount our creels and grip our gads,

An' throw a sweeping line,

An' we'll hae a splash amang the lads,
For the days o' lang syne.

Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,
He's green below the knee,