It is somewhat curious, that on the evening Mr. Wilmshurst put together
his Liverpool Window, his larger Window of the Field of Cloth of Gold, was
totally destroyed by fire, and by the next morning all its glories were
melted (or vitrified) into tears.
* * * * *
SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.
* * * * *
THE TWA BURDIES.
BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
When the winter day had past an' gane,
Twa wee burdies came into our hearth stane;
An' they lookit a'round them wi' little din,
As if they had living souls within.
"O, bonny burdies, come tell to me
If ye are twa burdies o' this countrye?
An' where ye were gaun when ye tint your gate,
A-winging the winter shower sae late?"
"We are cauld, we are cauld--ye maun let us bide,
For our father's gane, an' our mother's a bride:
But in her bride's bed though she be,
We would rather cour on the earth wi' thee!"
"O, bonny burdies, my heart is sair
To see twa motherless broods sae fair.
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