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 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 iny 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.

MRS THRALE.

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

Piozzi died at Clifton in 1822.

The Three Warnings.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,
And looking grave-Y You must,' says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'
With you! and quit my Susan's side?
With you!' the hapless husband cried;
'Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know?
What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So death the poor delinquent spared,

And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
"Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave.'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
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 cót ;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter-once the comfort of my age!
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.

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.

SCOTTISH POETS.

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.

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

humoured, social, happy old man'-who was independent on £20 a-year-and to promote the sale of his volume, he addressed a letter and a poetical epistle in praise of it to the Aberdeen Journal. The epistle is remarkable as Beattie's only attempt in Aberdeenshire Scotch; one verse of it is equal to Burns:

O bonny are our greensward hows,

Where through the birks the burnie rows,
And the bee bums, and the ox lows,

And saft winds rustle,

And shepherd lads on sunny knowes
Blaw the blythe whistle.

Ross died in 1784, at the great age of eighty-six.

Woo'd, and Married, and a'.

The bride cam' out o' the byre,

And, O, as she dighted her cheeks! Sirs, I'm to be married the night,

And have neither blankets nor sheets; Have neither blankets nor sheets,

Nor scarce a coverlet too;

The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.

Woo'd, and married, and a',

Married, and woo'd, and a'!
And was she nae very weel off,

That was woo'd, and married, and a'?

Out spake the bride's father,

As he cam' in frae the pleugh: O, haud your tongue my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether,

And our braw bawsint yade, Will carry ye hame your cornWhat wad ye be at, ye jade?

Out spake the bride's mither,

What deil needs a' this pride?
I had nae a plack in my pouch
That night I was a bride;
My gown was linsy-woolsy,
And ne'er a sark ava;
And ye hae ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa.

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!'

JOHN LOWE.

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.

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.

Auld Robin Gray.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,

And a' the warld to sleep are gane;

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
When my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;

But saving a croun, he had naething else beside:
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was

stown awa;

My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,

Said, Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry me!

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck :

The ship it was a wreck-why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father argued sair: my mother didna speak;
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to
break:

Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in

the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, I'm come back for to marry thee.

Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,

For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

MISS JANE ELLIOT AND MRS COCKBURN.

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.

The Flowers of the Forest.

[By Miss Jane Elliot.]
I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the fore-
most,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.
We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Oh, fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting?

why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me ;

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