Sae don your plaid and tak' your gad,

An' gae awa' wi' me.

Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer,
We're fidgen a' fu' fain,

We've fished the Coquet mony a year,
And we'll fish her ance again.

An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' nicht begins to fa,

An' ilka chiel maun hae his crack,

We'll crack aboon them a'.

When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,
I'll lay my loof in thine;
We've shown we're gude at water yet,
An' we're little warse at wine.

We'll crack how mony a creel we've filled,

How mony a line we've flung,

How many a ged and saumon killed,

In days when we were young.

We'll gar the callants a' look blue,

An' sing anither tune;

They're bleezing, aye, o' what they'll do, We'll tell them what we've dune.

This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and, whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos and spirit of its own.

pens

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TO BURNS.

AND wha is he that syngs sae weel,
And
"" Addresses to the Deil?"
Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns?
Daft Gowk! ye ken it's sonsie Burns!

His gabby tales I looe to hear,
They please sae meikle, run sae clear;
That ilka time, good traith, I read,
I'se wiser baith i' heart an' head.

I wad advise, when runkled care
Begins to mak ye glow'r and stare,
That ye wad furst turn ow'r his leaf,
'T'will mak ye sune forget ye'r grief!

And should auld mokie sorrow freeten,
His blythesome tale ye'r hearts will leeten;
And sure I am, ye grief may banter,
By looking ow'r his "Tam O'Shanter."

And, while I breathe, whene'er I'se scant,
O' cheerful friends-and fynde a want
Of something blythe to cure my glumps,
And free me frae the doleful dumps,

I'll tak his beuk, and read awhile,
Until he mak me wear a smile;
And then, if I hae time to spare,
I'll learn his "Bonny Banks of Ayr!"

From The Bards of Britain, contained in The Remains of Joseph Blacket, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and Goldsmith.

"In the year 1790, when Burns wrote Tum o'Shanter, stories of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a large survival of popular belief in their power and the diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a reality that has hitherto failed of recognition.

The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole of the circumstances. That confession establishes the reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in Demonologia (Bumpus, 1827).

In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three proce versions of the story. In one, a farmer who "had gct courageously drunk in the smithy," saw the "infernal junto" play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, "Weel luppen, Maggie, wi' the short sark." In this case the speed of the horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at "the keystane o' the brig" the witches despoiled the horse of its tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of the farmer's declaration. The third story is of no account in this

connexion.

In Robert Chambers's Life and Works of Burns, iii. 152, we are told that "the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny," the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the "queerest stories."

That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these "facts of the case no explanation of the motive, no indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the dénoûment proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations, however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the category of historical facts.

An important commentary on the subject will be found in a volume entitled Interesting Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.) In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law, Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain witches, and made the discovery that their names were entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a women who was a member of the gang to permit him to accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded, and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his name with his own blood. But

instead of complying with the rule he put spurs to his "while out the hellish steed and fled with the book, legion sallied,"

The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat, and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home, and quickly locked himself in and copied the By this time the clamouring names from the book. crowd had reached the house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which they gladly seized and carried away.

In introducing the story Mr. Small says: "If ever the poet Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his humorous and excellent poem."

.

Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses,
And by some dark, prophetic sleight
Each held a boding spectral light,
By which our wary WEG was able
To spy, spread out upon a table,
Late-murdered measures; cord or knife
Had robbed the innocents of life.

A proud Peer's garter one had strangled,
And many more were maimed and mangled;
In short the scene was simply awful,
And WEG considered quite unlawful.

THE POLITICAL TAM O'SHANTER.

Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns. Application-obvious.

No man can tether time or tide,

And he who holds the reins must ride;
And such a night WEG takes the road in
As seldom rider was abroad in.
With Boreas at his fullest blast,
And Eurus whistling fierce and fast,
There was a shindy never fellowed.

Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed,
That night o' nights a Scot might say
The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay.

Well mounted on his mare was WEG,
(A stouter never lifted leg.)
Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire,
Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire,
Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it.
WEG, holding fast his good Scots bonnet,
Looked sharp around with prudent care,
Lest bogies take him unaware,
Or watchful foemen "wipe his eye'
cry,"
With that confounded thing, a

By this time he was cross the ford
(Where he was very nearly floored),
And passed the bog so dark and dank

Where Snobdom's "CHARLIE" sprawled and sank,

And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark,

Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark;

And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide,
Where one had need be Argus-eyed.
Before him doom appears at flood,

Redoubling storm roars through the wood;
Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole,
And vocal thunders fiercely roll.

But there was pluck in WEG's shrewd noddle, He cared no more for threats than twaddle, His mare, though, was a bit astonished,

Until, by hand and heel admonished,

She ventured forward on the light,
And eh! WEG saw a wondrous sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance,
Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France;
Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
High on a seat, with flaming eyes,
There sat old Nick in human guise;
Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large;
To set the measures was his charge.

He pitched the pipes and made them skirl,

But WEG knew what was what right well,
And one young witch there bore the bell,
One late enlisted in the rout

(At Woodstock known and thereabout)
At many a measure she had shot,
And many a plan had sent to pot;
Made many a plucky wight feel queer,
And shook e'en her own side with fear.
Her "cutty sark" of true-blue yarn,
Which, up to now, the witch had worn,
In cut and fit was scant and strange,
Some thought she hankered for a change,
And that 'twas sad her youth's bright riches
Should e'er have graced a dance of witches.

But here my muse must faster flutter,
'Tis scarce within her power to utter
How RANNIE leapt, and twirled, and flung
(A supple jade she was and young),
And how WEG stood like one bewitched,
How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched.
Even Satan glowered as though in pain,
And puffed and blew with might and main,
Till with one caper and another,

No longer WEG his words could smother,
But roars out "Well danced, Cutty Sark!"
When in a moment all was dark;

And scarce his mare and he had rallied
When out the yelling legion sallied.
As bees buzz round a sugar-tub,

Or workmen round an opening "pub,"
As M.P.'s rush to chase the grouse
When Prorogation clears the House,
So the mare runs, the witches follow,
With many an eldritch shriek and hollow.

Ah, WEG! ah, WEG! they're nearing, nearing,
Like hounds on trail of a red herring.

Midlothian, WEG, awaits thy coming;

They'll think you're lost, dear WEG, or humming,
Now, ride thy very hardest, WEG!

If the bridge key-stane feels her leg,
Thy mare at them her tail may toss,-
That running stream they cannot cross.
But ere the key-stone she could make,
The deuce a tail had she to shake,
For Nickie, far before the rest,
Hard on that nag so nimble prest,
And flew at WEG with hope to settle;
But little knew he that mare's mettle.
One spring brought WEG off safe and hale,
But left behind her own grey tail;
For with NICK's pull and the mare's jump,
WEG's nag was left with ne'er a stump!
Punch, August 16, 1884,

"HERE'S A HEALTH."

HERE'S a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa,

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa'!
It's guid to be merry and wise,
It's guid to be honest and true,

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan,
Although that his band be sae sma.'
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue

It is guid to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

Here's freedom to him that would read,
Here's freedom to him that would write,

There's nane ever feared that the truth should be
heard,

But they who the truth would indite.

Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,

Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,

It's guid to be wise, to be honest and true,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.

The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular, and the following is a parody of it.

"THE BROBDIGNAG BONNETS" OF BLUE.-A Parody. (Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit.) "If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so."'

HERE'S health to the ladies at home
Here's health to the ladies awa',

And wha winna pledge it wi' a' their soul,
May they ne'er be smiled on at a'.

It's guid to be pretty and fair,

It's guid to be smilin' like you!

It's guid to be stealin' the gentlemen's hearts,—
But na by broad bonnets of blue.

Awa' wi' those bonnets of blue,

Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!

It's guid to be stealin' the gentlemen's hearts,-
But nae by sic bonnets of blue.

Here's health to the bright eyes at hame,

Here's health to the bright eyes awa',

Here's health to the beauties of every clime,—

But na to their bonnets at a'.

I've a bracelet for her wha is wed,

For the maiden a sweet billet-doux:

Dear darlings, I'd give them whate'er they might

ask,

Except a broad bonnet of blue.

THOUGH right be aft put down by strength,
As mony a day we saw that,

The true and leilfu' cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a' that.

For a' that, an a' that,

Guns, guillotines, and a' that,

The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is Queen again for a' that!

We'll twine her in a friendly knot
With England's Rose and a' that;
The Shamrock shall not be forgot,
For Wellington made braw that.
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude,
Yet faith we'll no misca' that,
She shelter'd in her solitude
The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that,

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine
(For Blucher's sake, hurra that),
The Spanish Olive, too, shall join,
And bloom in peace for a' that.

Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined
Around our wreath we'll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind,
Shall have it for his gra-vat!

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thaw that
The Devil's elbow be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,
In spite of brags and a' that,
The lads that battled for the right
Have won the day, and a' that!

There's ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca' that!

A coward plot her rats had got
Their father's flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that,

And Yankee loon, beware your croun,
There's kames in hand to claw that!

For on the land or on the sea,
Where'er the breezes blaw that,
The British Flag shall bear the grie,
And win the day for a' that.

WALTER SCOTT.

TO WOMEN OF THE PERIOD. Is it because she cannot rule,

That curls her lip and a' that? Such froward dame is but a fool, And shames her sex for a' that! For a' that and a' that,

Poor worldly fame and a' that, She strives but for a gilded badge, Herself's the gold for a' that.

What though we will not let her vote, "Electioneer" and a' that ;

'Tis best that man should wear the coat, The "breeches," vest, and a' that. For a' that and a' that,

She's but a "rib" for a' that! Man's work requires a man complete, Not half" a man for a' that.

She does not need Newmarket tribe,
The walking-stick and a' that;
They but expose to jest and gibe
The cause they plead and a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

Their wrongs and rights and a' that,
The woman who respects herself,
Just looks and laughs at a' that.
"Master Henpeck," give a lady place,
At vestry boards and a' that;
But she with bonnie modest face,
Will stay at home for a' that.
For a' that and a' that.

"Equality" and a' that,

She was not made to rush and race,
And elbow man for a' that.

The hearth and home are woman's sphere,
Her proper place and a' that;
Where she may bear and nurse and rear,
The "Babes of Grace" and a' that.

And they have ta'en and flung him down
Upon an iron bed,

And underneath, with cruel hand,

Have heaped the ashes red.

They've spread him out, and pressed him down,
And turned him o'er and o'er,

They've dried him up, until he curled,
And writhed in suffering sore.

In vain he twisted and he turned,

In vain he cried for grace;

They kept him so, and scorched him till
He grew black in the face.

But finding he was still alive,

Their malice waxed more keen;
They dosed him first with Prussian blue
Till his poor face turned green.

What sparks of life might still remain
Determined to foredo,

They gave him next a bitter draught

Of gum and catechu.

And on his death his name they changed,

Lest men their crime should know,

And when men asked, "Who's that lies there?" They answered, "Young Pekoe."

Whereas his name and family,

It really was Souchong,

Related to the old Congous,

A race both rough and strong.

Lest men should recognise his dust,
To dust when passed away,
His calcined bones they kneaded up
With lumps of China clay.

Their poison'd victim then they wrapp'd
In lead, with well-feign'd grief,
And wrote the epitaph outside,
"Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf."

And though their grief was all a sham,
The epitaph was true,

For "here" it said, "a Tea-leaf lies."
And "lie" such Tea-leaves do.

Now Tea-leaf's name is in repute
In lands beyond the sea,

Where maiden ladies love him much,
Under the name Green-tea.

Ah! little dream these ancient maids

Of Chinaman's vile craft,

Nor think, while chatting o'er their cups,
There's poison in the draught.

And little know they of the fate
Poor Tea-leaf had to dree,
Or in their teapots they would weep
Tears bitter as their tea;

Till with the water of their woe
E'en the first brew was spiled,
And the presiding maid would be
Obliged to draw it mild !

Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear,
By poison doomed to fall;

And when there's green-tea in the pot,
May I not drink-that's all.

Punch, November 29, 1851.

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MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE.

(Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger.)

My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear,
My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near-
I'll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe,
My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.

Punch, November 8, 1856.

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“O, WHISTLE, AND I WILL COME TO YOU."

[A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions, County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh Murray Gunn, J. P., in a tone of derision.]

O WHISTLE, and I will arrest you, my lad,
O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad;

Though your father and mother and all should go mad,
O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
But warily act, when you're passing by me,
And do not indulge in irreverent glee;
Derisive deportment let nobody see,
And pass as you were not a passing by me.
O whistle, &c.

But mind you are always respectful to me,
Since rudeness with magistrates doesn't agree;
But far from the converse of naughty boys flee,
For fear they should set you a-laughing at me.

O whistle, &c.