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FROM 1727

I freely will own I the muffins preferred To all the genteel conversation I heard. E’en though I’d the honour of sitting between My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen, Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine. Cries Peggy, ‘This place is enchantingly pretty; We never can see such a thing in the city. You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton Street, And never so civil a gentleman meet; | You may talk what you please; you may search London through; You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too; And I’ll give you my head if you find such a host, For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast: How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife, And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life!” “These horns, cries my lady, “so tickle one's ear, | Lard! what would I give that Sir Simon was here! | To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go, | For I find here are folks one may venture to know: Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend, And my lord would be pleased with so cheerful a friend.” So when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past, I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along; For his lordship was pleased that the company now To my Lady Bunbutter should curtsy and bow; And my lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly proud At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd. And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored This beautiful image set up by my lord, Some few insignificant folk went away, Just to follow the employments and calls of the day; But those who knew better their time how to spend, The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend. Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillon, Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion; All the while her mamma was expressing her joy, That her daughter the morning so well could employ. Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great? As homeward we came—'tis with sorrow you’ll hear What a dreadful disaster attended the peer; For whether some envious god had decreed That a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed; Or whether his lordship was charmed to behold His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old; In handing old Lady Comefidget and daughter, | This obsequious lord tumbled into the water; | But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat, | And I left all the ladies a-cleaning his coat.

Mirts. Thirt ALE.

MRs THRALE (afterwards Mrs Piozzi), who lived for many years in terms of intimate friendship with | Dr Johnson, is authoress of an interesting little | moral poem, The Three Warnings, which is so superior to her other compositions, that it has been supposed to have been partly written, or at least corrected, by Johnson. This lady was a native of | Wales, being born at Bodville, in Caernarvonshire, in 1740. In 1764 she was married to Mr Henry | Thrale, an eminent brewer, who had taste enough to appreciate the rich and varied conversation of Johnson, and whose hospitality and wealth afforded

the great moralist an asylum in his house. After

the death of this excellent man, his widow married

Signior Piozzi, an Italian music-master, a step

which Johnson never could forgive. The lively | lady proceeded with her husband on a continental tour, and they took up their abode for some time on the banks of the Arno. She afterwards published


|rence Miscellany, and afforded a subject for the

To 1780. a volume of miscellaneous pieces, entitled The Flo

satire of Gifford, whose “Baviad and Maeviad' was written to lash the Della Cruscan songsters with whom Mrs Piozzi was associated. The Anecdotes and Letters of Dr Johnson, by Mrs Piozzi, are the only valuable works which proceeded from her pen. She was a minute and clever observer of men and manners, but deficient in judgment, and not particular as to the accuracy of her relations. Mrs Piozzi died at Clifton in 1822.

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What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, |
The willing muse shall tell:
He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old, -
Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.

| And now, one night, in musing mood, As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-killed with anger and surprise,

“So soon returned '' old Dodson cries.

“So soon d'ye call it?' Death replies:

*Surely, my friend, you’re but in jest!

| Since I was here before
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore.”

“So much the worse,' the clown rejoined; “To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority—is’t regal | Else you are come on a fool's errand, | With but a secretary's warrant.” | Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, | Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages.”

“I know,” cries Death, “that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you’d still be able To stump about your farm and stable: | Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength !’ ‘Hold,” says the farmer, “not so fast ! I have been lame these four years past.” “And no great wonder,’ Death replies: ‘However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.’ “Perhaps,’ says Dodson, “so it might, But latterly I’ve lost my sight.” ‘This is a shocking tale, ’tis true; | But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.” “There's none,’ cries he; “and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.” “Nay, then,” the spectre stern rejoined, These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, | You've had your Three sufficient Warnings; | So come along, no more we’ll part;’ He said, and touched him with his dart.

And now Old Dodson, turning pale, Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.

Thomas Moss.

The REv. THoMAs Moss, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Hill, and of Trentham, in Staffordshire, published anonymously, in 1769, a collection of miscellaneous poems, forming a thin quarto, which he had printed at Wolverhampton. One piece was | copied by Dodsley into his “Annual Register,’ and from thence has been transferred (different persons being assigned as the author) into almost every periodical and collection of fugitive verses. This poem is entitled The Beggar (sometimes called The Beggar's Petition), and contains much pathetic and natural sentiment finely expressed.

The Beggar.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, | Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

* An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was the cause of so much contention in its day.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,

For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here craving for a morsel of their bread,

A pampered menial forced me from the door, To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes—why should we repine !
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see:

And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow, and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;

But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter—once the comfort of my age 1 Lured by a villain from her native home,

Is cast, abandoned, on the world’s wide stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife—sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,

Fell—lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pig the sorrows of a poor old man

hose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.


Though most Scottish authors at this time—as Thomson, Mallet, Hamilton, and Beattie—composed in the English language, a few, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue with considerable success. The popularity of Ramsay's ‘Tea-Table Miscellany’ led to other collections and to new contributions to Scottish song. In 1751 appeared “Yair's Charmer, and in 1769 David Herd published a more complete collection of ‘Scottish Songs and Ballads, which he reprinted, with additions, in 1776.


ALExANDER Ross, a schoolmaster in Lochlee, in Angus, when nearly seventy years of age, in 1768 published at Aberdeen, by the advice of Dr Beattie, a volume entitled Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which are added a few Songs by the Author. Ross was a good descriptive poet, and some of his songs —as Woo'd, and Married, and a', The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow—are still popular in Scotland. Being chiefly written in the Kincardineshire dialect (which differs in many expressions, and in pronunciation, from the Lowland Scotch of Burns), Ross is less known out of his native district than he ought to be. Beattie took a warm interest in the “good

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John Lowe (1750–1798), a student of divinity, son of the gardener at Kenmore in Galloway, was author of the fine pathetic lyric, Mary's Dream, which he wrote on the death of a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, who was attached to a Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was tutor in the family of the lady's father, and was betrothed to her sister. He emigrated to America, however, where he married another female, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Fredericksburgh. Though Lowe wrote numerous other pieces, prompted by poetical feeling and the romantic scenery of his native glen, his ballad alone is worthy | of preservation.

Mary's Dream.

The moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
When, soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me!’

She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow ee.
“O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me !

Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

O maiden dear, thyself prepare;
We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!’
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
‘Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!’


LADY ANNE BARNARD was authoress of Auld Robin Gray, one of the most perfect, tender, and affecting, of all our ballads or tales of humble life.

Balcarres House, Fifeshire; where “Auld Robin Gray' was composed.

About the year 1771, Lady Anne composed the ballad to an ancient air. It instantly became po|pular, but the lady kept the secret of its authorship for the long period of fifty years, when, in 1823, she acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, accompanying the disclosure with a full account of the circumstances under which it was written. At the same time Lady Anne sent two | continuations to the ballad, which, like all other continuations (Don Quixote, perhaps, excepted), are greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its parts, that no additions could be made without marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady Anne was daughter of James | Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres; she was born 8th December 1750, married in 1793 to Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III., and died, without | issue, on the 8th of May 1825.

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guage of the heart, ladies have often excelled the ‘lords of the creation,' and in music their triumphs are manifold. The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, sister to Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto. The second song, which appears to be on the same subject, but was in reality occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford of Fernilie, who was afterwards married to Mr. Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794.

We agree with Mr Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective.

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John skinn E.R.

| Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tulloch

gorum, the composition of the Rev. John SKINNER

(1721–1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good will among men. Mr Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the Rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons! He died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised his wish of ‘seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.” Besides “Tullochgorum,’ and other songs, Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises.


Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside ;
What signifies’t for folks to chide
For what’s been done before them :
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To drop their Whigmegmorum.
Let Whig and Tory all
To spend this night with mirth and glee,
And cheerful sing alang wi' me
The reel of Tullochgorum.

0, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite ; -
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',
And mak’ a cheerfu quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.

There need na be sae great a phrase
Wi’ dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o’’em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi’a' their variorums.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum. .

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi’ fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi’keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi’ neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
And canna rise to shake a fit
At the reel of Tullochgorum ?

May choicest blessings still attend

Each honest-hearted open friend ;

And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him

May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties, a great store o' 'em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by any vicious blot;
And may he never want a groat,
That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy knaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum !


Robert CRAwford, author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his ‘Tea-Table Miscellany,’ and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733. Crawford had genuine poetical fancy and expression. ‘The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, “seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people, and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.'

The Bush aloon Traquair.

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I’ll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her ;
At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder ;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her;
I tried to soothe my amorous flame,
In words that I thought tender ;
If more there passed, I’m not to blame—
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May,
It's sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay—
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me !
O make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me :
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender ;
I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair—
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

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