Alas! Alack! Alack! And well-a-day,

That ever man should make himself away!

That ever man for woman false should die,

As many have, and so, and so (prepares to hang himself; tries the sensation, but disapproves of the result) won't I! No, I'll go mad! 'gainst all I'll vent my rage,

And with this wicked wanton world a woeful war I'll wage! (Hangs his boots to the arm of a tree, and, taking a scrap of paper, with a pencil writes the following couplet, which he attaches to them, repeating the words):

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,

Must meet Bombastes face to face."

Thus do I challenge all the human race!

(Draws his sword, and retires up the stage, and off.)

Enter the KING.

King. Scorning my proffer'd hand, he frowning fled, Curs'd the fair maid, and shook his angry head.

(Perceives the boots and label.),

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,
Must meet Bombastes face to face."

Ha! dost thou dare me, vile, obnoxious elf?
I'll make thy threats as bootless as thyself.
Where'er thou art, with speed prepare to go
Where I shall send thee-to the shades below.

(Knocks down the boots.)

Bombas. (coming forward). So have I heard, on Afric's

burning shore,

A hungry lion give a grievous roar;

The grievous roar echo'd along the shore.

King. So have I heard on Afric's burning shore

Another lion give a grievous roar,

And the first lion thought the last a bore.

Bombas. Am I then mocked? Now, by my fame, I swear

(Falls on his back.)

King. I have it, sure enough! Oh, I am slain!

I'd give a pot of beer to live again.

Yet ere I die I something have to say:

My once-lov'd gen'ral, pri'thee come this way!
Oh! oh! my Bom-

Bombas.

(Dies.)

-Bastes he would have said,

But, ere the word was out, his breath was fled.
Well, peace be with him; his untimely doom
Shall thus be mark'd upon his costly tomb:
"Fate cropt him short; for be it understood,
He would have liv'd much longer-if he could."

(Retires again up the stage.)

Enter FUSBOS.

Fusbos. This was the way they came, and much I fear

There's mischief in the wind. What have we here?

King Artaxominous bereft of life!

Here'll be a pretty tale to tell his wife.

Bombas. A pretty tale, but not for thee to tell,

For thou shalt quickly follow him to hell;

There say I sent thee, and I hope he's well.

Fusbos. No, thou thyself shalt thy own message bear;

Short is the journey, thou wilt soon be there.

(They fight; BOMBASTES is wounded.).

Alas! Alack! Alack! And well-a-day,

That ever man should make himself away!

That ever man for woman false should die,

As many have, and so, and so (prepares to hang himself; tries the sensation, but disapproves of the result) won't I! No, I'll go mad! 'gainst all I'll vent my rage,

And with this wicked wanton world a woeful war I'll wage! (Hangs his boots to the arm of a tree, and, taking a scrap of paper, with a pencil writes the following couplet, which he attaches to them, repeating the words):

"Who dares this pair of boots displace,

Must meet Bombastes face to face."

Thus do I challenge all the human race!

(Draws his sword, and retires up the stage, and off.)

Robert Burns

Holy Willie's Prayer

Он, Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel',

Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell,

A' for Thy glory,

And no for ony guid or ill

They've done afore Thee!

I bless and praise Thy matchless might, Whan thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here afore Thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,

'A burnin' an' a shinin' light

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation!
I, wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Whare damned devils roar and yell,

Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,

To show Thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in Thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example
To a' Thy flock.

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place,
For here Thou hast a chosen race;
But God confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,

Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts

Wi' great and sma',

Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar