5
Tho' a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,
At ance, had drapped cauld dead at my feet;
Or, tho’ I‘d heard the last day‘s dreadfu' ca',
Nae deeper horror on my heart could fa':
I curs'd mysel', I curs'd my luckless fate,
And grat—and, sobbing, cried—O Kate! O! Kate
Frae that day forth, I never mair did weel
But drank, and ran headforemost to the deel.
My siller vanish‘d, far frae hame I pin'd,
But Kate for ever ran across my mind.
In her were a' my hopes—these hopes were vain,
And now—I'll never see her like again.
'Twas this, Sir President, that gart me start.
Wi' meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,
| To gi'e my vote, frae sad experience, here, |
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| That disappointed love is waur to bear, |
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| Ten thousand times, than loss o’warld’s gear |  |
THE AULD SARK SLEEVE.
A reverend esteem’d divine,
Upo' a Sabbath-day short syne,
While studious, a drawer unlocket,
To get a napkin for his pocket;
But, by mistak, didna perceive,
He whippet in‘t an auld sark sleeve!
