three or four pullets for eerochs, or for devouring through the winter; and never set aboon fourteen eggs to ae hen, nor indeed mair than a dizzen, unless she be a weel-feathered mawsie, and broad across the shoulders.

NORTH.

Why, the place will be absolutely overrun with barn-door fowl.

SHEPHERD.

Barn-door fowl! Hoot awa! You maun hae a breed o' gem-birds. Nane better than the Lady-legg'd Reds. I ken the verra gem-eggs, at the first pree, frae your dunghill-as different as a pine-apple and a fozy turnip.

NORTH.

The conversation has taken an unexpected turn, my dear Shepherd. I had intended keeping a few deer.

SHEPHERD.

A few deevils! Na-na. You maun gang to the Thane's; or if that princely chiel be in Embro' or Lunnon, to James Laidlaw's and Watty Bryden's, in Strath-Glass, if you want deer. Keep you to the How-towdies.

NORTH.

I hope, Mr Hogg, you will bring the mistress and the weans to the housewarming?

SHEPHERD.

I'll do that, and mony mair besides them.—Whare the deevil's Mr Tickler?

NORTH.

Off. He pretended to go to the pump for an aquatic supply, but he long ere now has reached Southside.

SHEPHERD.

That's maist extraordinar. I could hae ta'en my Bible oath, that I kept seeing him a' this time sitting right foreanent me, with his lang legs and nose, and een like daggers-but it must hae been ane o' Hibbert's phantasms-an idea has become more vivid than a present sensation. Is that philosophical language? What took him aff? I could sit for ever. Catch me breaking up the conviviality of the company. I'm just in grand spirits the xicht-come, here's an extempore lilt.

AIR,-Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my Lad.

1.

If e'er you would be a brave fellow, young man,
Beware of the Blue and the Yellow, young man ;
If ye wud be strang,

And wish to write lang,

Come join wi' the lads that get mellow, young man.
Like the crack o' a squib that has fa'en on, young man,
Compared wi' the roar o' a cannon, young man,
So is the Whig's blow

To the pith that's below

The beard o' auld Geordie Buchanan, young man.

2.

I heard a bit bird in the braken, young man,
It sang till the Whigs were a' quaking, young man,
And ay the sad lay

Was, Alack for the day!

For the Blue and the Yellow's forsaken, young man.
The day is arriv'd that's nae joking, young man ;
'Tis vain to be murmuring and mocking, young man :
A Whig may be leal,

But he'll never fight weel,

As lang as he dadds wi' a docken, young man.

3.

O wha wadna laugh at their capers, young man?

Like auld maidens, fash'd wi' the vapours, young man,

Is sae loud in the air,

That the windows of heaven play jingle, young man.

4.

I'll give you a toast of the auldest, young man ;
The loyal head ne'er was the cauldest, young man ;
"Our King and his Throne,

Be his glory our own,

And the last of his days aye the bauldest, young man.—
But as for the loun that wad hector, young man,
And pit us at odds wi' a lecture, young man,
May he dance cutty-mun,

Wi' his neb to the sun,

And his doup to the General Director,† young man.

A perfect Pistrucci !

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Haud your tongue, and I'll sing you ane o' the bonniest sangs you ever heard in a' your born days. I dinna ken that I ever wrote a better ane mysell. It is by a friend o' mine-as yet an obscure man-Henry Riddell-t’ither day a shepherd like mysell-but now a student.

SONG, to the Air of" Lord Lennox.”

1.

When the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain;
When the shepherd has ceased o'er the heather to roam;
And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,

Inviting his love to return to her home;

There meet me, my Mary, adown by the wild-wood,
Where violets and daisies sleep saft in the dew;
Our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,
And pure as the heavens' own orient blue.

2.

Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming;
Thy cheek shall be fann'd by the breeze of the lawn;
The Angel of Love shall be 'ware of thy coming,
And hover around thee till rise of the dawn.

O, Mary! no transports of Heaven's decreeing
Can equal the joys of such meeting to me;

For the light of thine eye is the home of my being,

And my soul's fondest hopes are all gather'd to thee.

NORTH.

Beautiful indeed, James-Mr Riddell is a man of much merit, and deserves encouragement. The verses on the death of Byron, published a week ago by my friend John Anderson, shew feeling and originality. But would you believe it, my beloved Shepherd, my eyes are gathering straws.

Pingle-difficulty.

This is a mysterious allusion to that part of the town where Executions take place.

VOL. XVII.

3 D

I felt somewhat hungry so long after supper, and having detected a round of beef in a cupboard, I cut off a segment of a circle, and have been making myself comfortable at the solitary kitchen-fire.

NORTH, (rising.)

Come away, my young friend-Give me your arm, James. That will do, Shepherd-softly, slowly, my dearest Hogg-no better supporter than the author of the Queen's Wake.

SHEPHERD.

What a gran ticker is Mr Ambrose's clock! It beats like the strong, regular pulse of a healthy house. Whirr! Whirr! Whirr! Hear till her gee'ing the warning. I'll just finish these twa half tumblers o' porter, and the wee drappie in the bit blue noseless juggy. As sure's death, it has chapped Three. The lass that sits up at the Harrow'll hae gane to the garret, and how'll I get in? (Sus canit.)-O let me in this ae night,

This ae ae ae night, &c.

With a' our daffin, we are as sober as three judges with double gowns.

As sober!

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

Dear me, Mr North, what's that in your coat-pouch?

NORTH, (subridens illi.)

Two Numbers of Maga, you dog. The London trashery has had hitherto the start of me in the market. Our next Number is for April—and April showers bring May-flowers.

Mr Ambrose looks out in his nightcap-wishing good night with his usual suavity -Exeunt-Tickler in advance-and North leaning on the Shepherd.

Printed by James Ballantyne and Company, Edinburgh.

'Twas Carnival, that time of frantic glee,
When Venice bore the palm, by none denied,
When Pleasure's joyous pilgrims flock'd to see
Her pompous Senate doff its ermined pride,
To sport its mirth-enfranchised slaves beside.
No more his beads the holy friar told ;
No more the housewife plied her busy wheel;
The usurer forgot to count his gold;

The mendicant to whine; the thief to steal:
All was release from toil, escape from sorrow,
A six-weeks' holiday that knew no morrow.

"Twas in this season of contagious glee,
That midnight hour when most o'erflows its tide,
That brave Leoni, late return'd from sea,
Received the boon he prized o'er all beside,
Foscari's lovely daughter for his bride.
O'er the proud ancestry that lined the walls
A thousand lamps their blaze of radiance threw,
Music resounded through the marble halls,
And fairy dancers to the measure flew :
All shared Leoni's joy, but those the best
Whom mutual love alike had lately blest.

VOL. XVII.

3 E

Was the bliss mutual? Envy's piercing eye
Mark'd a light cloud obscure Genevra's brow,
Her wakeful ear surprised a secret sigh,

That, rising, struggled with the marriage vow;
Leoni mark'd not; all was sunshine now
Within a breast, where Love and Honour found
Congenial element; yet in whose darker mood
These bright ones might in deadly spells be bound,
Fale doubts might haunt, and jealous fiends intrude.
But wherefore now? Genevra's ready voice,
Unfalt'ring, ratified a father's choice.

Months onward roll'd. War's spirit-stirring cry
Aroused Leoni from inglorious ease:→
Again his galley's stern display'd on high
His gilded cross, the terror of the seas,
And gave his conqu'ring banner to the breeze.
He went reluctant, for his love was still
A bridegroom's: while a darker, fiercer power
Began its subtle poisons to distil:

This to his brother at their parting hour
He half imparted, with mysterious tone,
And bade him guard his honour as his own.

There had of late return'd from foreign lands
One who had loved Genevra; some would say
The youthful pair had plighted hearts and hands,
Ere he, in quest of wealth, had ta'en his way
To those far isles where sinks the orb of day.
When from his toil-worn bark he gaily sprung,
With bounding heart, upon the well-known shore,
'Mid greetings loud, there lack'd not raven tongue
To whisper she he loved was free no more.
He heard the tidings with unalter'd mien,

And few durst judge what was, or might have been.

They met, they gazed: not Envy's fiendish ken
Could aught that spoke of love in him descry,
No cheek that flush'd and straight grew pale again,
Nor falt'ring voice, nor quick averted eye;
His brow was cloudless, and his bearing high.
But on that face, by nature cast to be

The soul's pellucid mirror, hope and fear

Mingled their hues; prepared the storm to see,
She had for wrath a smile, for grief a tear;

But both were frozen, when Lorenzo cast

One cold unconscious glance, that cancell'd all the past.

From Herculaneum's dusky mine restored,
There stands in gay Parthenope's rich halls
A Gladiator, who, his faithless sword
Unconscious dropping, rolls his sightless balls,
Unprostrate dies, and stiffens ere he falls.
Thus stood, each limb benumb'd with icy chill,
Scorn's wither'd victim, struck with deadlier smart,
For swords are merciful, and quickly kill,
While scorn's barb'd arrow rankles in the heart.
The healing fount within was sear'd and dried,
And grief's sole luxury, a tear, denied!

[April,