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was refused on the ground of corruption in the jury, the magistrate was bound to investigate the matter; and, should the accusation prove wellfounded, to order a new trial.

its author. When the report of the punchayet was made out, the officer of government proceeded to confirm and enforce its decree, the mode of payment being regulated according to the circumstances and situation of the losing party. If he were rich, immediate payment was ordered; if otherwise, he was commanded to pay by instalments; and in case of utter incapability, an exemption from the demands of his creditor, was granted for a certain number of years. This was done to enable him by his own industry to acquire the means of meeting the demand; but in case of a refusal on his part to obey, the system called Tukkazza was had recourse to. Literally speaking, this means no more than dunning; but when authorized by an award of court, it included everything, from simple importunity, up to placing a guard over a man, preventing his eating, tying him neck and heels, or making him stand on one leg with a heavy stone on his head, under a vertical sun." Be it observed, however, that if submission to a verdict

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I have yet a great deal to say on the subject of native institutions, before I can pretend to contrast the present with the former condition of India. The changes gradually wrought as kingdoms became enlarged, the alterations effected by the Mahomedans-and other no less important matters must be stated. But these I shall defer to a future opportunity. Enough is done for the present, when I beg you to observe, that not one of all the revolutions to which India has been subjected, interfered in any material degree with the village system. That continued the same under an extensive as under a petty Rajahship; it was left whole and untouched by the Mahomedans; it remained for the English, in their zeal to improve the condition of the people, to work its overthrow. And what has been the consequence? We shall see in due time.

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INTERPRETATION OF THE LARKIS SONG.

"

O, my love is bonnye, and mylde to se,
Als sweitlye she sittis on her dewye le,
And turnis up her cheike and cleire grey eye,
To liste quhatis saying withinne the sky;

1825.

Ringan and May.

For she thynkis my mornyng hymne so sweite,
With the streimmers of hevin anethe my feite,
Quhere the proude Goss-hawke colde nefer wonne
Atweene the graye cloude and the sonne,
And she thynkis her love ane thyng of the skyis,
Sent downe fre the holye Paradysse,

To syng to the worild at morne and evin,
The sweite lufe-sangis in the bowris of hevin.

O my love is bonnye, and yongue, and cheste,
Als sweitly she sittis in her mossy este!
And she demis the burdis on boshe and tre,
Als nothyng but duste and droulle to inee.
Tho the Robyn wairbel his waesum chirle,
And the Merle gar all the greinwode dirle,
And the Storm-cock toutis on his touryng pyne,
She trewis their sangis ane mocke to myne;
The Lintyis cheipe ane dittye tame,
And the Shillphais everlestyng rhame ;
The Pliveris whew ane soloch dreire,
And the Whilly-whapis ane shaime to heire
And quhanevir ane lufer comis in viewe,
She cowris anethe her skreine of dewe.

'O my love is bonnye! her virgyn breste
Is sweiter to me nor the dawuyng eiste;
And weille do I lyke at the gloamyng stille,
To dreip fre the lytte or the louryng hille,
And presse her este as qubite als mylke,
And her brest as saft als the downye silke.'

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Now quhen my love had warbelit awaye
To this baisse parte of the laverokis laye,
Myne herte wals lyke to burste in twaine,
And the teris flowit fro myne eyne lyke raine.
At lengthe he sayit, with ane syche fulle lang,
"Quhat ailes my love at the laverokis sang?

Say is I, "He is ane baisse and wycked birde,
Als ever rase fro the dewye yirde;
It's a shaime to mounte on his mornyng wyng,
At the yettis of hevin sikan sangis to syng;
And all to win with his awmerous dynne,
Ane sweetc littil virgyn birde to synne,
And wrecke with flatterye and song combynde
His deire lyttil maydenis pece of mynde!
O were I hir, I wolde let him se

His sangis sholde all be loste on mee."

Then my luve toke me in his armis,
And gan to laude my leifu charmis;
But I wolde not so moche als let him speike,
Nor stroke my chynne, nor kisse my cheike,
For I feirit myne herte wals going wrang,
It wals so movit at the laverokis sang.

Yet stille I laye withe ane upcaste ee,
And stille he wals syngin so bonnilye,
That, tho withe iny myude I had grit stryffe,
I colde nat forbeire it for my lyffe,
But als he hung on the hevinis browe,
I saide, I kenit not why, nor howe,
"Quhatis that lyttil detri sayand nowe?"

Then my luve Ringan he wals so gladde,
He leughe tille his follye pat me madde ;
And he said, " My luve, I will tell you true,
He semis to syng that strayne to you;
VOL. XVII.

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For it sayis, I will rainge the yirde and ayre
To feide my love with the finest fare;
And quhen she lukis fro her bedde to mee,
Withe the yearnyng lufe of a moderis ee,
O then I will come, and drawe her neirer,
And watche her closer, and lufe her deirer,
And wee never shalle pairte till our dying day,
But lufe and lufe on for ever and aye!"

Then myne herte it bled with a thrylling pleasure,
Quhen it lernit the laverokis closyng measure,
And it rase, and rase, and wolde not reste,
And wolde hardly bide withinne my briste.
Then up I rase, and away I sprongue,
And saide to my luve with scornfulle tongue,
That it wals ane bigge and burning shaime;
That hee and the larke were bothe to blaime;
For there were some layis so softe and blande
That breste of mayden colde nat stande ;
And if he laye in the wode his laine,
Quhille I came backe to list the straine
Of ane awmerous birde amang the brome,
Then he mochte lye quhille the day of dome!
But for all the storte and stryffe I maide;
For all I did, and all I saide,

Alas! I feire it will be lang

Or I forgette that wee burdis sang!
And langer still, or I can flee
The lad that tellit that sang to me!
ALTRIVE LAKE, March 14th, 1825.

THE WITCH OF THE GRAY THORN.

BY JAMES HOGG THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

"THOυ old wrinkled beldam, thou crone of the night, Come read me my vision, and read it aright; For 'tis said thou hast insight the picture to scan Far onward beyond the existence of manAnd hid'st thee for ever from eye of the day, But rid'st on the night-wind away and away Over cloud, over valley, on hemlock or reed, To burrow in churchyards, and harass the dead. Old beldam declare thee, and give me to wis, If I stand at the side of such being as this!"

"Mad priest of Inchaffery, I know thee too well,
Though thus in disguise thou hast come to my cell;
What is it to thee if through darkness I fly
Like bird to career round the skirts of the sky-
Or sail o'er the seas in my shallop of shell,
To do what the tongue of flesh dares not to tell?
Suffice it, I know what thy vision hath been,
Ere a word I have heard, or a sign I have seen;
Besides, its high import distinctly I see;
And, priest of Inchaffery, I'll tell it to thee-
Not for love or reward, but it troubles me sore
To have one in my presence I scorn and abhor.

"Thou did'st dream of a coronet blazing with gold,
That was hail'd by the young, and admired by the old
And thou had'st a longing the thing to obtain;
But all thy bold efforts to reach it were vain;

When lo! thine own mitre arose from thy crown,
And mounted aloft, whilst the other sank down;
It mounted and rose in a circle of flame,

'Midst clamours of wonder and shouts of acclaim; The crown into darkness descended apace, And thine was exalted on high in its place. Thou saw'st till the red blood ran down in a stream, 'Thou awakened'st in terror, and all was a dream! Priest, that was thy dream-and thou must-'tis decreed→→→ Put down the Archbishop, and rise in his stead!"

"Thou liest, thou old hag. With the cunning of hell Thou darest me to practise what thou dost foretell ; But there both thy master and thee I'll defy: Yet that was my vision, I may not deny. Mysterious being, unblest and unshriven !

Pray, had'st thou that secret from hell or from heaven ?”
"I had it, proud priest, from a fountain sublime,
That swells beyond nature, and streams beyond time;
And though from the same source thy warning might come,
Yet mine was the essence and thine but the scum.

I heard and I saw, what, if thou had'st but seen,

A terror thy mortal existence had been ;

For thou had'st grown rigid as statue of lead-
A beacon of terror for sinners to dread!

Thou think'st thou hast learning and knowledge inborn;
Proud priest of Inchaffery, I laugh thee to scorn!
Thou know'st less of nature, where spirits roam free,
Than a mole does of heaven, or a worm does of thee.

"Begone with thy gold, thy ambition, and pride ;
I have told thee thy vision, and solved it beside.
But dare not to doubt the event I foretell-
The thing is decreed both in heaven and hell,
That thou, an arch-traitor, must do a good deed,
Put down the Archbishop, and rise in his stead!"

Away went the Abbot with crosier and cowl,
And visions of grandeur disturbing his soul;
And as he rode on, to himself thus he said-
“The counsels of heaven must all be obey'd;
Nor throne, church, nor state, can security have,
Till that haughty prelate be laid in his grave,
Let that nerve my arm, and my warrandice be."-
Well said, thou good Abbot of Inchafferye!

The Archbishop had plotted too deep in the state;
The nobles were moved 'gainst the man of their hate;
The Monarch was roused, and pronounced in his wrath
A sentence unseemly-the Archbishop's death!
But that very night that his doom was decreed,
A private assassin accomplish'd the deed.

The court was amazed; for loud whisperings came
Of a deed too unhallow'd and horrid to name;
Abroad rush'd the rumour, and would not be stemm'd;
The murderer is captured, convicted, condemn'd ;
Condemn'd to be hung like a dog on a tree.
"Who is the assassin-Pray who may it be?-
Ha!-The worthy good Abbot of Inchafferye !"

In darkness and chains the poor Abbot is laid,
And soon his death-warrant is to him convey'd ;
His hour is announced, but he laughs it to scoru,
And sends an express for the Witch of Gray-Thorn.
She came at his call, and though hideous her form,
And shrivell'd, and crouch'd, like a crane in a storm,
Yet in her dim eye that was hollow'd by time
The joy of a demon was gleaming sublime,

And with a weak laugh 'twixt a scream and a hiss,
She cried, "Pray, great Abbot, is all come to this?"-
"Where now thy bright omens, thou hag of the night?
Come read me this riddle, and read it aright.
So far thou said st truth-the Archbishop is dead
Thy bodement confirm-shall I rise in his stead?"

"Yes, up to the gallows!" the beldam replied. This day the Archbishop had suffer'd and died; But headlong on death I have caused thee to run. Ha, ha! I have conquer'd, and thou art undone !"

"Oh had I the hands which these fetters degrade, To sear out thy tongue for the lies it hath made, I would rend out thy heart, with black falsehood so cramm'd,

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And consign thy old soul to eternity damn'd!
May Heaven's dread vengeance depart from thee never,
But descend and enthral thee for ever and ever!"-

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Ay, curse thou away; to the theme I agree;
Thy curse is worth ten thousand blessings to me.
Ha, ha! thou proud priest, I have won! I have won!
Thy course of ambition and cruelty's run.
Thou tortured'st me once, till my nerves were all torn,
For crimes I was free of as babe newly born;
"Twas that which compell'd me, in hour of despair,
To sell soul and body to the Prince of the Air;
That great dreadful spirit of power and of pride,
His servant I am, and thy curse I deride.
For vengeance I did it, for vengeance alone;
Without that, futurity lurements had none.

I have now had full measure in sight of the sun-
Ha, ha! thou proud priest, I have won! I have won!
"Tis not thy poor life that my vengeance can tame,
It flies to the future, to regions of flame,

To witness, exulting, th' extreme of thy doom,
And harass thy being 'mid terror and gloom.
Ay, grind thou thy fetters, and fume as thou wilt,
O how I rejoice in thy rage and thy guilt!
And more-I have promise may well strike thee dumb,
To be nurse to thy spirit for ages to come;
Think how thou wilt joy that the task shall be mine
To wreck and to tease thee with tortures condign,
O'er cataracts of sulphur, and torrents of flame,
And horrors that have not exposure nor name.
Until this vile world of lust and of crime

Have sounded through fire the last trumpet of Time:
Adieu, bloody priest, in thy hour of despair,

When thy soul is forthcoming, there's one shall be there."

The Abbot was borne to the scaffold away,

He stretch'd out his hands and attempted to pray;
But at that dire monent there sounded a knell
Close to his stunn'd ear, 'twixt a laugh and a yell;
And a voice said aloud, that seem'd creaking with hate,
"Ha, ha! thou proud priest, it's too late! it's too late!"
He shiver'd, he shrunk, dropp'd the sign, and was hung;
He gasp'd, and he died, and that moment there rung
This sound through the welkin so darksome and dun,
"I have thee I have thee!I have won I have won!"

ALTRIVE LAKE, March 11, 1825.

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