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man-the other, that of a wig-wearing homme de la plume, inhaling the brick-burning atmosphere of the purlieus of Seymour Place.

Justice, however, must make us remark, that Hogg's ideas of female resistance, to male caresses, have been, in a great measure, stolen from a poet of our own.

"Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her,

Kiss before she has time to cry Christopher;

She may sing out, You're an impudent

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Now for Hogg.

"I may be wrong, as grant I may,
But it is plain, that on that day
The storm hath all unequall'd been,
Such as no living man hath seen.
These are the signs of sinful deed,
And these are tokens that I dread.
The demons of the fiery reign
Have been abroad in Christ's domain,
Roused, by some powerful heathen spell,
From out the lurid vales of hell,
The face of earth and heaven to mar,
And hurl the elements in war."

Well blown and strong, by both poets-but Hogg is far better. What is the tempest raging o'er the realms of ice or the rifted preci-pice-the wolf's long howl, (we have heard that epithet long before, Tom,) and the wailing spirits-compared to demons of the fiery reign, (qu.? rain) the lurid vales of hell-the elements hurled in war; and all by him of Ettrick. A tempest in a teapot!

But we need not push this part of the parallel farther. Let us take them upon a new tack.

It has been said, that the English language has been forcing itself upon us, to the detriment of our fine Scoticisms. The Waverley man has reared the head of our Doric somewhat, but we are quite proud to have this additional specimen, to prove that there are still men of Scotland, who have not bowed the knee to the Baal of the English tongue. Proofs are afforded in the pages of both poets most amply, and we shall hastily gather in a few.

In the English language, "death" rhymes to "breath," "Seth," and a hundred other words, which must instantly occur to the reader. Different rhymes await it north of the Border. "One single inch 'twixt them and death, They wonder'd at their cordial faith.”

HOGG, p. 52. "To think I could have merited your faith, Shall be my solace, even unto death." CAMPBELL, p. 21. And in a hundred other places. Hogg also often rhymes to wrath.

"Breast" rhymes with "rest," among the English epicures. No such thing "within the realms of Bere

gon.

"Expecting every glance she cast
To see forth bursting from its breast."
HOGG, p. 18.
"It was not strange, for in the human
breast

Two master passions cannot co-exist."
CAMPBELL, p. 36.

"On" rhymes to "Don" Southotherwise North,

"The warrior smiled, and laid him down, I saunter'd, sung, and wander'd on."

HOGG, p. 68. "No fears could damp-I reached the camp-sought out the champi-on, And if my broad-sword failed at last, 'twas long and well laid on." CAMPBELL, p. 124. Earth-birth-mirth, &c.

"And as the hail-cloud hanging swarth Bursts with the thunder on the earth." HOGG, p. 83. "When o'er the green undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth.” CAMPBELL, p. 53. How both bards rhyme "bosom" is past conjecture.

"The liquid sounding flame enclosed them,

And roll'd them in its furnace bosom." HOGG, 435.

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They have some peculiar ideas as to the word "abroad."

"Go back, ye wolves, to your dens, he cried,

And tell the nations abroad

How the fiercest of your herd has died,
That slaughter'd the flock of God."
CAMPBELL, 147.
"But darker paths are to be trod,
For darker doings are abroad."

HOGG, 268. But we should be quoting the whole books did we go on. Campbell rhymes "bouquetin" to "between, "and"route" to "out," thereby shewing his knowledge of French pronunciation. He also favours us with " pair" and

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prepare," ""page" and " page, "break" and "neck," break" and "wreck," ," "Devons" and " ravens," "human" and "woman," and five hundred others, in consequence of which we hereby new christen him Thomas the Rhymer, Hogg gallops away in every page at such a rate that it is needless to hunt out particulars. Cull we, therefore, a flower or two from each, and desert.

"Again to the battle, ACHAIANS,
Our hearts bid the tyrants deFIANCE."
CAMPBELL, 84.

Match that, Hogg, if you can. Ay, ay, sir, says Hogg.

Farewell,

No. 2, Shire Lane, January 1st, 1825. VOL. XVII.

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Array'd in thy beauty and gladdening smiles;

Thine the control I list, Lovely mythologist ! Thine the monition that never beguiles."

Very good, indeed. Now, Mr Campbell. We request our readers to sound the s's as strong as they can, and remember that this is a song to be sung.

"Love's a boundless burning waste, Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,

And still more seldom flee.
Suspence's thorns, Suspicion's stings,
Yet somehow love a something brings,

That's sweet, even though we sigh
Woe's ME!"

To be sung to music, it must be the music of a saw.

"Farewell, sweet bards, farewell, ye

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Noctes Ambrosianae.

No. XVIII.

ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ.

[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,

PHOC. ap. Ath.

An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days;

Meaning, ""TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINEBIBBING people,

"NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE; "BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."

An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis

And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]

SCENE I.

MR SECRETARY DR MULLION.

C. N.

ap. Ambr.

Yes, sir, your last Noctes appear to have made what my friend Dr Jamieson calls a stramash.

NORTH.

Why, sir, our conversations get wind unaccountably, and it is little wonder that they do make a noise. What do you allude to particularly?

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Well, Bowring, in the Morning Chronicle, has answered it—thereby taking on himself the office my song gave him of Poet Laureate to the pack. You remember,

When Bowring's tongue sings Southey's song,

and now he chants accordingly by anticipation.

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MULLION (producing an ancient Morning Chronicle) chants.

When built on laws, the good old cause

Triumphantly shall reign,

And in their choice the People's voice
Shall not be heard in vain ;

When England's name and England's fame

Stand pure, and great, and free,

Corruption chain'd, and Truth maintain'd,

Then, hey, boys, down go we!

When Glory tears the wreath he wears
From WELLINGTON's proud brow,

And Liberty shall sit on high,

That walks in darkness now;

When Justice wakes, and from her shakes

Old ELDON, Scornfully,

And stands erect in self respect,

Then, hey, boys, down go we!

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When laws on game shall cease to shame
The subject and the state;

And men can trust, as wise and just,
An unpaid Magistrate;

When Judges pure, shall seek t' insure
A bright publicity;

And BEST can keep his rage asleep-
Then, hey, boys, down go we!

When law's disputes, and Chancery suits,
Shall be no more the tools

For knaves in black, to harm and hack
The many-colour'd fools;

When fraud and wrong, in weak and strong,

And rich and poor, shall be

With equal hand pursued and bann'd

Then, hey, boys, down go we!

When rods and whips, from BENTHAM's lips,
The pand'ring knaves shall chase,

Who long have sold, for pride and gold,
Their country and their race;

When France and Spain shall rise again,
And lovely Italy,

By sufferings rude, refresh'd, renew'd-
Then, hey, boys, down go we!

When man at length shall feel his strength,
And in his strength control

The despot few, who then shall rue

The hatred of the whole;

When towers serene, in living green,
Fair Freedom's sacred tree;

And 'neath it, blest, the nations rest-
Then, hey, boys, down go we!

[Here Mr NORTH fell asleep.]

When Mr North in Frith of Forth,
Shall fathom five be duck'd;

When Tickler's neck a rope shall deck,

From lofty gallows chuck'd;

When messan dog treats Jamie Hogg

In fashion rather free;

When Jeffrey's sheers crop Blackwood's ears,

Then, hey, boys, down go we!

(NORTH) awaking as usual at the end of the song.

Bravo! bravo! a very good song indeed. I always said Tom Campbell was a clever fellow.

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NORTH.

Ay, Bowring-yes, Bowring, I meant. Shew me the song; let me peruse it. Reads Then, hey, boys, down go we." Bowring may understand

Russian, but he is not quite certain as to his English. Hey, boys! is huzza, boys! rather an out-of-the-way cry for a sinking party.

When pertness, made a thriving trade

By Croker, thrives no more

How horribly afraid all these hounds of low degree are of Croker!

MULLION.

Doubtless. The allusion to " priestly bigotry," is not even brought into juxtaposition with Ireland, and the course recommended in that island. But it is not a bad song, for all that. The rhymes, however, are poorish-The last verse strikes me to be far the best-that I mean about ourselves. Don't you think, sir, it would be an improvement if it ran thus in the last quatrain ?— When Brougham shall flog Ettrickian Hogg,

(That whip might borrow'd be, Which Gourlay laid on shoulder blade,) Then, hey, boys, down go we.

NORTH.

I do not like parenthesis in songs-but the idea is good. On the whole, I am pleased with the song. Mullion, write to-morrow to Bowring,-he lives in Jeffrey's Square, St Mary's Axe,-to say that I shall employ him in the song department, at a guinea per song, with liberty afterwards to publish it with music at Power's or elsewhere-besides permission occasionally to gather them into a volume. Even if I reject, as I sometimes must, I shall pay him nevertheless, for I like to patronize genius.

MULLION, (making memorandum.)

It shall be done, sir. You have seen the Dumfries Journal's answer to the Farewell to Scotland, sung by the Ensign on the same occasion?

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No-keep it till Sir Morgan comes-I expect him every moment.

Enter AMBROSE.

AMBROSE.

Mr Tickler. [Exit AMBROSE as TICKLER enters.]

TICKLER.

How do you do, North ?-Mullion, your hand; it is a long time since I saw either of you.

We have just ordered supper.

NORTH.

TICKLER.

I am as dry as a lime-burner's shoe. [Rings enter Waiter-receives orders -exit-and re-enters with a quart of porter, which TIMOTHY gulps at a draught. I have just parted with Hogg. He'll be here in a moment.

Enter HOGG.

Is't me ye're talkin' o', Mr Tickler? How's a' wi' ye?

MULLION, (aside.)

I say, Mr North, did you ever see the Shepherd's eyes reel 'so?

NORTH.

Oh, stuff-Well, I shall not wait another minute for this long-legged Irish

man.

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[Rings.

[Exeunt omnes.

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