Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans
A' plump and strapping, in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' cheeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwiddie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam keen'd what was what fu' brawlie,
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night inlisted in the core,
(Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore!
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear,)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie.-
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,)
Wad ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang,)

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain,
And hoch'd and blew wi' might and main;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When, Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross,
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
İlk man and mother's son, tak heed:

It is a well-known fact, that witches or any evil spirits have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.

THE PARSON, THE SQUIRE, AND THE SPANIEL.
A TALE.

A gentleman possessed a favourite spaniel,
That never treated maid nor man ill:
This dog, of which we cannot too much say,
Got from his godfather the name of Tray.
After ten years of service just,

Tray, like the race of mortals, sougnt the dust-
That is to say, the spaniel died:
A coffin then was ordered to be made,
The dog was in the church-yard laid,
While o'er his pale remains the master cried :
Lamenting much his trusty for-clad friend,
And willing to commemorate his end,

He raised a small blue stone, just after burial,
And weeping, wrote on it this sweet memorial:
Tray's Epitaph.

Here rest the relics of a friend below,
Blessed with more sense than half the folks I know;
Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone,
He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnawed his bone;
Performed his functions well in every way-
Blush, Christians, if you can, and copy Tray.

The curate of the Huntingtonian band,
Rare breed of gospel-hawks that scour the land,

This curate heard th' affair with deep emotion,
And thus exclaimed, with infinite devotion:
O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! O Lord!
This, truly, is a very pretty thing!
Fine doings, these, upon my word!

What will become of this most shocking world? How richly such a rogue deserves to swing,

And then to Satan's hottest flames be hurled! "Oh! by this damned deed how I am hurried, A dog in Christian ground, indeed, be buried! And have an epitaph forsooth, so civil: Egad! old maids will presently be found Clapping their dead ram cats in holy ground,

And writing verses on each mousing devil.",
Against such future casualty providing,

The priest set off, like Homer's Neptune, striding,
Vowing to put the culprit in the court:
He found him at the spaniel's humble grave;
Not praying, neither singing of a stave;

And thus began t' abuse him, not exhort,"Son of the devil, what hast thou done? Nought for the action can atone

I should not wonder if the Great All-wise Quick darted down his lightning all so red, And dashed to earth that wretched head,

Which dared so foul, so base an act devise. 'Bury a dog like Christian folk!None but the fiend of darkness could provoke

A man to perpetrate a deed so odd:
Our inquisition soon the tale shall hear,
And quickly your fine fleece shall shear;

Why, such a villain can't believe in God."
Softly, my reverend sir," the squire replied,
Tray was as good a dog as ever died—

No education could his morals mend. And what, perhaps, sir, you may doubt, Before his lamp of life went out,

He ordered you a legacy, my friend."

"Did he ?-poor dog!" the softened priest rejoined,
In accents pitiful and kind ;-

"What! was it Tray? I'm sorry for poor Trav.
Why, truly dogs of such rare merit,
Such real nobleness of spirit,

Should not like common dogs be put away.
"Well, pray what was it that he gave,
Poor fellow, e'er he sought the grave?

I guess I may put confidence, sir, in ye.” "A piece of gold," the gentleman replied.— "I'm much obliged to Tray," the parson cried; So left God's cause, and pocketed the guinea.

CUMBERLAND'S INGRATITUDE.

Mr. Cumberland being asked his opinion of Mr. Sheridan's School for Scandal, said, "I am astonished that the town can be so duped! I went to see his comedy, and never laughed once from beginning to end."-This being repeated to Sheridan"That's d-d ungrateful of him," cried he," for I went to see his tragedy the other night, and did nothing but laugh from beginning to end."

THE PRAISE OF POTATOES. A BURLESQUE.

Hail, rare potatoes! hot or cold, all hail!
O quickly come mine appetite's delight!
Whether in oven's fiery concave clos'd,
By bakers' art delicious thou'rt embrown'd
While rills of purple gravy from the pores
Of mighty beef improve the luscious fare.
Whether the dame of culinary skill
Have rudely scalp'd thee o'er, and to the rage
Of warring elements consign thee deep,
Beneath the cope of air-excluding lid

In humid durance plung'd. Or when with steaks
Of marbled vein, from rump of stall-fed steer
Disparted late-slic'd in the shallow pan
I view thee kindly strew'd, how joys my heart!
How flash with eager glance my longing eyes!
Or in the tedious eye, when nipping frost

Reigns potent, 'mid the smould'ring embers roast
(From subterranean store selected) those
Of amplest size rotund, of native coat
Yet unbereft and if my homely board
Penurious, add but few salubrious grains
Of humble salt, I bless the cheap repast!-
But chiefly come at noon-tide hunger's call,
When from th' ebullient pot your mealy tribe,
With happiest art concoct, profusely pours;
And be the mass with butter's plenteous aid
To rich consistence wrought: nor oh! withhold!
The pepper's pungent pow'r, of grateful glow
Beneficent! lest my insatiate claim
Ventose and wat'ry, cause the twinging gripe
Of cholic pang abdominal!-And here
Need I relate how when for thee I slight
Thy rival roots and poignant sauces rare
Crown'd with exotic name, my humble choice,
Mock'd with rude insult, wakes the latent spark
Of witling's fire-a feeble, glowworm ray
That beams, not burns! Nor feels my injur'd

taste

(Taste undeprav'd by fashion's varying art)
Alone the shaft, but person, fortune, fame,
All, all, invidious scann'd, with sneer malign
And scoff sarcastic.- In the pudding's praise
Let others rant loquacious-I despise
The doughy morsel for my fav'rite food.
Give me but this, ye gods! scornful I pass
Each celebrated shop—(Williams, or Birck,
Or he of Belgic fame-idol supreme
Of city saint in city-hall ador'd!-

By mortals Hoffman hight)-where brittle puffs
Multangular-with custards, cakes, and creams,
And lucid jellies nodding o'er the brim

Of crystal vase, in pastry pomp combine
To lure the sense. These, these, unmov'd I pass,
While fond I antedate potatoes' charms,
"Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind."

EPITAPH ON A MRS. DEATH.

Here lies Death's wife; when this way next you tread, Be not surpris'd should Death himself be dead,

win it, and so I lost it." "But," added he, turning himself slowly round," who is the fool that asked me this question?"

AN APOLOGY FOR KINGS,

As want of candour really is not right,
I own my satire too inclined to bite :
Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.
On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup
Why will the simple world expect wise things,
From lofty folks, particularly kings?

Look on their poverty of education! Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods, And by their awful frowns and nods,

Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation. They scorn that little useful imp called mind, Who fits them for the circle of mankind Immured, they doze in ignorance and state. Pride their companion, and the world their hate; Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend little with their subjects to unbend!

CUREAN'S SHIRT.

Curran, while at college, was called before the board for wearing a dirty shirt. "I pleaded," said Ae, "inability to wear a clean one, and I told their reverences the story of poor Lord Avonmore, at that time Barry Yelverton. I wish, mother,' said Barry, I had eleven shirts.'-' Eleven! Barry, why eleven - Because, mother, I am of opinion that a gentleman, to be comfortable, ought to have a dozen.' Poor Barry had but one, and I made the precedent any justification."

PLAIN REASONS.

A young Frenchman one day asked the Duke Bernard de Weimar, "How happened it that you Lost the battle of }" I will tell you, sir," replied the duke, coolly, "I thought I should not

An instance take :-A king of this great land,
In days of yore, we understand,
Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair:

An Earl of Pembroke was the monarch's guide;
Incog. they travelled, shuffling side by side;
And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his silken gown, Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay: And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down,

Looking the frightened verger through and through, What, what, sir?-hey, sir?" deigned the king to All with his eye-glass-" Well, sir, who are you?

say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king: In this cathedral I do every thing; Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean." "Hey? verger! verger!-you the verger?-hey?" "Yes, please your glorious majesty, I be." The verger answered with the mildest mien. Then turned the king about towards the peer, And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear,