But Woe Awaits A Country When She

For Love Will Still Be Lord Of All.

What Various Scenes, And O! What Scenes Of Woe, Are Witness'd By That Red And Struggling Beam! The Fever'd Patient, From His Pallet Low, Through Crowded Hospitals Beholds It Stream; The Ruined Maiden Trembles At Its Gleam, The Debtor Wakes To Thought Of Gyve And Jail, The Love-lorn Wretch Starts From Tormenting Dream; The Wakeful Mother, By The Glimmering Pale, Trims Her Sick Infant's Couch, And Soothes His Feeble Wail.

Jock, When Ye Hae Naething Else To Do, Ye May Be Aye Sticking In A Tree; It Will Be Growing, Jock, When Ye 're Sleeping.

Who, Noteless As The Race From Which He Sprung, Saved Others' Names, But Left His Own Unsung.

We Build Statues Out Of Snow, And Weep To See Them Melt.