And a bumper to wash from our spirits the rust;
Then let gear-scraping carls make o' life catch-the-plack,
And strod to the de'il wi' the trash on their back.

This life is a garden where all choose their posies:
In the spring of our youth let us gather the roses;
For brief is their bloom like the dews of the morn,
If you seek them too late you will find but a thorn.

If Care steal amang us he's narrowly watch'd,
By a smile or a squeeze of the hand he's dispatch'd;
Or the arm of a friend should the stout villain meet,
One blink of true love lays him dead at your feet.

Then fill up a glass to the absent and dear--
May their lives be serene as their breasts are sincere;
And to crown our true bliss, let us give, ere we part--
May we have in our arms whom we love in our heart.

_London Weekly Review._

* * * * *



THE SKETCH-BOOK.

No. XLVII.