ROBERT FULLER MURRAY.

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed through the doorway into the street, A strong wind lifted his hat from his head, And he uttered some words that were far from sweet. And then he started to follow the chase, And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet, It made the people pause in a crowd, And lay odds as to which would beat. The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat, The errand-boy shouted hooray! The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand, And smiled in a very rude way; And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words, But never, until to-day, Did I hear any words that were quite so bad As I heard that young man say.'

So in the village inn the poet dwelt. His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch, His cousin's work, her empty labour, left. But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung And lingered all about the broidered flowers. Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch 'Smoke plug, mon,' whom he looked at doubtfully. Then came the grocer, saying, 'Hae some twist At tippence,' whom he answered with a qualm. But when they left him to himself again, Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt His fancies with the billow-lifted bay Of Biscay and the rollings of a ship. And on that night he made a little song, And called his song 'The Song of Twist and Plug,' And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing. 'Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain; And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain; I know not which is ranker, no, not I. 'Plug, art thou rank? then milder twist must be; Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me. O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy. 'Rank twist that seems to make me fade away, Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay, I know not which is ranker, no, not I. 'I fain would purchase flake, if that could be; I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me! Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.'

It was many and many a year ago, In a city by the sea, That a man there lived whom I happened to know By the name of Andrew M'Crie; And this man he slept in another room, But ground and had meals with me. I was an ass and he was an ass, In this city by the sea; But we ground in a way which was more than a grind, I and Andrew M'Crie; In a way that the idle semis next door Declared was shameful to see. And this was the reason that, one dark night, In this city by the sea, A stone flew in at the window, hitting The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie. And once some low-bred tertians came, And bore him away from me, And shoved him into a private house Where the people were having tea. Professors, not half so well up in their work, Went envying him and me— Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought (And Andrew agreed with me), Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year, Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie. But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts Of many more famous than he— Of many more gory than he— And neither visits to foreign coasts, Nor tonics, can ever set free Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith Of the injured Andrew M'Crie. For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream, 'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!' And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes, And the very first thing they will see, When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls, Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals, With a volume of notes on its knee, Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.