The Coorse Cratur.

The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men             Throu Jericho the bonny;         'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken             Mang sons o' men sae mony:         The wee bit son o' man Zacchay             To see the Maister seekit;         He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy,             An' sae his shortness ekit.         But as he thoucht to see his back,             Roun turnt the haill face til 'im,         Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak--             His hert gaed like to kill 'im.         "Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel;             This nicht I want a lodgin."         Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell,             Nor needit ony nudgin.         But up amang the unco guid             There rase a murmurin won'er:         "This is a deemis want o' heed,             The man's a special sinner!"         Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze:             "Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it;         Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees,             Fourfauld again I pay it!"         Then Jesus said, "This is a man!             His hoose I'm here to save it;         He's are o' Abraham's ain clan,             An' siclike has behavit!         I cam the lost to seek an' win."--             Zacchay was are he wantit:         To ony man that left his sin             His grace he never scantit.