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Some shake the pelting dice upon the Round through the vast circumference of

broad backgammon.

Others, of travell'd elegance, polite,

With mingling music Maggie's house surround,

And serenade her all the live-long night With song and lyre, and flute's enchanting sound,

Chiming and hymning into fond delight The heavy night air that o'ershades the ground;

While she, right pensive, in her chambernook,

sky,

Scarce can the eye one speck of cloud behold,

Save in the East some fleeces bright of

dye,

That hem the rim of heav'n with woolly gold,

Whereon are happy angels wont to lie

Lolling, in amaranthine flow'rs enroll'd, That they may spy the precious light of God,

Flung from the blessed East o'er the fair Earth abroad.

Sits pond'ring on th' advice of little The fair Earth laughs through all her

Tommy Puck.

boundless range,

frewshires a short time previously. But he did not always act with equal judiciousness; and soon after he took a part in the heated politics of the time which it would be difficult to justify, and for which he paid a melancholy penalty. In politics he was an extreme Tory, and as a partizan of that political section, he wrote a squib, entitled a "New Whig Song," reflecting on the courage of Mr Stuart of Dunearn, who at once challenged him. The meeting took place at Auchtertool, in Fife, on the 26th March 1822, and resulted in Sir Alexander's being mortally wounded. He died next day, at Balmuto, the original seat of the Boswells. Sir Alexander's sense of being in the wrong determined his having resolved, if his opponent missed aim, to fire blank. Stuart escaped to the continent, but gave himself up for trial about a year afterwards, when he was acquitted.

fruits, and possibly the immediate occasion of the setting up of the Auchinleck press, was a unique copy of the disputation between John Knox and Quentin Kennedy, at Maybole, in 1562, which Sir Alexander found in the Auchenleck library, and wished to have reprinted in fac-simile for his literary friends. He is connected with the origin of another and more extensive Ayrshire manufacture than that of booksnamely, the celebrated Mauchline woodwork, which is affirmed by the Scots Times to have originated in the mending of the snuff-box of a French gentleman, who was a guest at Auchinleck, by an ingenious Mauchline mechanic. Sir Alexander having taken a fancy to it, wished to have one made of the same pattern, and it was made so well that a demand sprung up for more. To this incident the present extensive and beautiful wood-work which is known as Mauchline manufacture owes its existence. It is said that the present Presi-teristic as a poet, and his "East Nuik dent of the Royal Scottish Academy first used his brush in painting the lids of Mauchline snuff-boxes.

Sir Alexander's chief claim to remembrance, besides his own contributions to literature, is his noble efforts in getting the Ayr Burns' monument erected, the foundation-stone of which he laid on the poet's birthday, 1820, in his capacity of Depute Grand-master Mason

Humour is Boswell's chief charac

o' Fife" shows how broad, how graphic, and original was his humorous vein. "Jenny's Bawbee" also ranks with "Tibbie Fowler" and "Kate Dalrymple," our best songs, satirising matrimonial fortune-hunting.

SKELDON HAUGHS;

OR, THE SOW FLITTED.

of Ayrshire. Although the grandson Crawford o' Kerse sat in his ha',

of Lord Auchinleck (a courtesy title), it was not till 1821 that he obtained his rank of Baronet of the United Kingdom, which was the reward of his tact and zeal in suppressing the disturbance that threatened the peace of Ayr and Ren

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White were his locks as drifted snaw;
For stealin' change o' shrivelin' time
Had quench'd the vigour o' his prime:
And totterin' limbs poor service yield,
Whan rivals struggle in the field.
His shrunken arm refused its part,

Ilk awfu' tramp he gave the ground, Garr'd aik-trees shake their heads a' round And lions rin hame cowerin'.

To shaw his pow'r unto the people, Ance in his arms he took the steeple,

Kiss'd it, and ca'd it brither; Syne from its bottom up it wrung, And in the air three times it swung,

Spire, bell, and a' thegither!

And when he'd swung it merrily,
Again upon its bottom he

Did clap it down sae clever;
Except a sma' crack half-way round,
The steeple stood upon its found,
As stout and straucht as ever!

Ae king's birth-day, when he was fu', Twa Tangier chaps began to pu'

His tails; when, on a sudden, Ane by the richt leg up he grippit, The tither by the neck he snippit,

And sent them skyward scuddin'.

On earth they ne'er again cam down ;
Ane in a tan-pit i' the moon

Fell plump, and breath'd his last ;
The tither ane was jammit ticht
'Tween twa stars o' the Pleiads bricht,
Whare yet he's sticking fast.

Ae day, when he stood near the sea,
A fleet o' Tyrian ships in glee

Was sailing gawcy by

He gript ae frigate by the mast,
And frae the deep wi' powstie vast
He rais'd her in the sky :

And then the great ship up he tumml'dHer mast was down, her hulk upwhumml'd,

Her keel high i' the lift;

Captain and cargo down cam rummlin', Marines, and men, and meat, cam tummlin'

Down frae her decks like drift.

He had a mammoth for his horse, Whareon wi' michty birr and force He rade haith up and down; My certy! whan on him he lap, For hill nor tree he didna stapFor tower, nor yet for town.

From Calpe to the Chinese wa' He travell'd in a day or twa;

And as he gallop't east,

The tower of Babel down he batter'dFor five miles round its bricks were scatter'd,

Sic birr was in his beast!

But whan he cam to Ecbatan,
A terrible strabusch was than ;

He soucht na street nor yett,
But hurly-burly, smash, smash, smash,
Through wa's and roofs he drave slap
dash,

Down-dundering a' he met :

What wi' his monster's thunderin' thud, And what wi' brusch, and smusch, and scud,

O' rafters, slates, and stanes, Ten thousand folk to dead were devell'd Ten thousand mair were eirthlins levell'd, Half-dead wi' fractur'd banes.

He travell'd, too, baith north and south,
Whiles for his hunger, whiles for drouth,
At Thebes he brak his fast;
And at the far Cape o' Good Houp,
He took his denner, and a stoup
O' wine for his repast.

He tried, too, on his fearsome horse,
His way up to our Pole to force,
To spy its whirlin' pin;
Up to the arctic ice-ribb'd flood
Nicherin' he cam, as he were wud,
Wi' dirdom and wi' din.

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ALTHOUGH the changes taking place in domestic relations are unfavourable to the growth of the sentiments consecrated in 'Lucy's Flittin,' while human nature remains what it is, the pathos of that simple ballad will not fail to impress it.

Its author, William Laidlaw, was born at Blackhouse, in Yarrow, in November 1780. The Ettrick Shepherd was in the employment of his father, James Laidlaw, and the poets were fast friends. Hogg, who was ten years his senior, fostered Laidlaw's, poetic aspirations. In 1801, Scott, when collecting for The Minstrelsy, was directed by

| Leyden to Laidlaw, and Laidlaw introduced Hogg to Scott. Laidlaw was a more sagacious man than Hogg; yet in farming, his fortune was not much better, and he had to give up the lease of his second farm, at Liberton, and accept the situation of Steward to Sir Walter, at Abbotsford. Here he resided at Kaeside Cottage, as Scott's trusted friend and factor, till the master's misfortunes necessitated their separation for some time. He returned again as Scott's amanuensis, and remained with him till his death. Shortly after that event, Laidlaw became factor to Mrs Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth,

Accounts he owed through a' the toun, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could

drown,

But now he thocht to clout his goun Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A Norland Laird neist trotted up,

Wi' bawsend nag and siller whip,

"

JENNY DANG THE WEAVER.

At Willie's wedding on the green,

The lasses, bonnie witches, Were busked out in aprons clean,

And snaw white Sunday mutches; Auld Maysie bade the lads tak' tent, But Jock wadna believe her;

Cried, There's my beast, lad, haud the But soon the fool his folly kent,

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For Jenny dang the Weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,
Jenny dang the Weaver;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the Weaver.

In ilka country dance and reel,
Wi' her he wad be babbin';
When she sat down then he sat down,
And till her wad be gabbin';
Where'er she gaed, baith butt and ben,

The coof would never leave her;
Aye kecklin' like a clockin' hen,
But Jenny dang the Weaver.
Jenny dang, &c.

Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind,
In troth I needna swither;
You've bonnie een, and if ye're kind,

I needna seek anither.

He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried Pheugh!

And bade the coof no deave her;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly Weaver.

And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,
Jenny dang, the Weaver;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly Weaver.

EAST NEUK O' FIFE.

Auld gudeman, ye're a drucken carte, drucken carle;

A' the lang day ye're winkin', drinkin', gapin', gauntin';

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