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.