filled all the court before the house, amply justified the good wife's suspicions. But to the terrors of fire Sandie was as immoveable as he was to the imaginary groans of the barren wife of laird Laurie; and he held his wife, and threatened the weight of his right hand-and it was a heavy one-to all who ventured abroad, or even unbolted the door. The neighing and prancing of horses, and the bellowing of cows, augmented the horrors of the night; and to any one who only heard the din, it seemed that the whole onstead was in a blaze, and horses and cattle perishing in the flame. All wiles, common or extraordinary, were put in practice to entice or force the honest farmer and his wife to open the door; and when the like success attended every new stratagem, silence for a little while ensued, and a long, loud, and shrilling laugh wound up the dramatic efforts of the night. In the morning, when laird Macharg went to the door, he found standing against one of the pilasters a piece of black ship oak, rudely fashioned into something like human form, and which skilful people declared would have been clothed with seeming flesh and blood, and palmed upon him by elfin adroitness for his wife, had he admitted his visitants. A synod of wise men and women sat upon the woman of timber, and she was finally ordered to be devoured by fire, and that in the open air. A fire was soon made, and into it the elfin sculpture was tossed from the prongs of two pair of pitchforks. And the blaze that arose was awful to behold; and hissings, and burstings, and loud cracklings, and strange noises were heard in the midst of the flame; and when the whole sunk into ashes, a drinking cup of some precious metal was found; and this cup, fashioned no doubt by elfin skill, but rendered harmless by the purification with fire, the sons and daughters of Sandie Macharg and his wife drink out of to this very day." London Magazine.

LANGUISHING LYRICS;

OR THE LAMENTABLE LOVES OF THE LACHRYMOSE LORD AND THE LUGUBRIOUS LADY*.

"The tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow."

Shakspeare.

A DAMSEL there was, and her surname was Thrope,
And her christian name was Ann ;-

Few lovers had she for her favours to hope,
For she was a hater of man ;-

And heartily she detested the sex,

And her only amusement was to vex,
And every thought of pleasure perplex-
(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!)
On the penserosa plan.

This sorrowful damsel, Miss Ann Thrope,
Thought laughter a mortal sin;

As soon in the morn as her eyes did ope,
To weep they did begin.

For her highest luxury was to grieve,

And in company to cry in her sleeve;

And as long as her shadow lengthen'd at eve(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) She was sure to lengthen her chin.

Such sentimentality Miss Ann Thrope
Expected all would admire;

So she studied to mumble, mump, and mope,
Like a cat by the kitchen fire.

* We need scarcely inform our readers, that the following humorous poetry is a satire upon the late marriage of a certain learned nobleman, who has acquired great fame by his verses and his travels.

The joys of the world she turn'd into woes,
And whenever she stoop'd to pluck a rose,
She took care to scratch her unfortunate nose-
(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!)
By smelling too near to the briar.

Sure nobody else but Miss Ann Thrope
In sorrow would waste the day,
And go out of their road for griefs to grope,
When so many are in the way.-

But she in a tombstone made her bed,
And epitaphs all night she read,

And with dying speeches bother'd her head(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) Till she sent her brains astray.

When my

lord came wooing to Miss Ann Thrope,

He was just a Childe from school;

He paid his addresses in a trope,

And called her pretty Bul-bul.

But she knew not in the modern scale,
That a couple of Bulls was a nightingale;
So full in his face she turn'd her tail-

(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) As sweet as a fresh-blown Gûl.

Then he sent a love-sonnet to Miss Ann Thr ope, Four stanzas of elegant woe;

The letters were cut in a comical slope,

With Ζωη με σας αγαπω.

;

'Twas all about rivals, and ruins, and racks The bearer was dress'd in a new suit of blacks; The paper was sable, and so was the wax(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope! ) And his pen was the quill of a crow.

What queer-looking words, thought Miss Ann Thrope, To tag at the tail of a distich!

So she clapp'd her eye to a microscope,

To get at their sense cabalistic.

He swore in the Hellespont he'd fall,

If she would not go with him to Istambol; But all she would answer was, tol de rol lol(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) To his lordship's rhymes Hellenistic.

Then the peer he said-O Miss Thrope,
Since life is a fading flower,

You'll do me the favour to elope

With your own dear faithful Giaour.

And as for your father, and mother, and aunt,
The family all I will enchant,

By reading of a Romaic romaunt(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) Till they shed of tears a shower.

His lordship he read :-and Miss Ann Thrope
Was obliged to praise his wit;

But as the poetry seemed rather sop-
orific, she dozed a bit.

Till, quite overwhelm'd with slumber and sorrow,
A yawn or two she begg'd leave to borrow
And said if he'd call again to-morrow-
(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!)
He might read a second Fytte.

He read till he wept ;-but Miss Ann Thrope
Declared it was all my eye;

She call'd him a Jew, and wish'd the pope

Had his Hebrew melody.

Says my lord-"I beg you will call it ee;
"And as whilom you have listened ne,

"I'll be off to the Paynims beyond the sea("O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) And leave you eftsoons to die."

Ah! who could resist ?-Not Miss Ann Thrope--
A Corsair hove in sight ;-

My lord he bid him throw out a rope,
And hold it fast and tight.

So then they put it to the vote;

He tipp'd the lozel a one pound note, And they jump'd together into the boat(O Thrope! Ann Thrope! O Miss Ann Thrope!) And bid her papa good night.

Anonymous.

MERCIFUL SOVEREIGNS.

In the year 1775, Mr. Wraxall, the traveller, visited the curious rock called Mont St. Michel, on the coast of Normandy, which, in situation and appearance, as in name, bears a close resemblance to St. Michael's Mount, on the coast of Cornwall. "Desirous (says he) to visit the celebrated Mont St. Michel, I hired two horses, and set out early yesterday morning. It is about twenty miles from Granville, and the road lying along the sea-shore renders it very pleasant. I got to Genet, a little village, before noon. From hence it is only a league to the Mount; but as it lies entirely across the sands, which are only passable at low tide, it becomes indispensably requisite to procure a guide. I did so, and arrived there about one in the afternoon. "This extraordinary rock-for it is no more-rises in the middle of the bay of Avranches. Nature has completely fortified one side by its craggy and almost perpendicular descent, which renders it impracticable for courage or address, however consummate, to scale or mount it. The other parts are surrounded by walls, fenced with semilunar towers, in the Gothic manner, but sufficiently strong, superadded to the advantages of its situation, to despise all attack. At the foot of the mountain begins a street or town, which winds round its base to a considerable height. Above are chambers where prisoners of state are kept, and other buildings intended for residence; and on the summit is erected the abbey itself, occupying a prodigious space of ground, and of a strength and solidity equal