I hae nae objections-for you've not only a sowl for music, sir, but a genius too, and the twa dinna always gang thegither-mony a man haein' as fine an ear for tunes, as the starnies on a dewy nicht that listen to the grass growin' roun' the vernal primroses, and yet no able to play on ony instrument-on even the flute-let abee the poker and the tangs.

A true and fine distinction.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

Whereas, sir, a genius for music can bring music out o' amaist ony material substance-be it horn, timmer, or airn, sic are the hidden qualities o' natur that lie asleep, even as if they were dead or were not, till the equally mysteri ous power that God has given to man, wiles or rugs them out to the notice o' the senses-in this case the ear-and then, to be sure, melody or harmony chimes or tinkles accordant and congenial to ony strain o' feelin' or o' fancy that the poet sings to the musician, and the musician plays back again, or rather at ane and the same time to the poet-the twa thegither sae speeritualeezin' the verra air o' the room, that the fire seems to burn as purely as the star that may be blinkin' in through the half-uncurtained window, frae its ain hame in heaven!

TICKLER.

Come, then, James, let me accompany you on my favourite instrument; a finer-toned tongs I never took in hand than this of the Octagon. The poker is a little out of tune, I fear-" but that not much." We have "counted the chimes at midnight" before now, my dear Shepherd

SHEPHERD.

I wish I mayna burst out a-lauchin' in the middle o' my sang, for siccan anither feegur I never saw, even in a dream, sir, as you, when you first rax yoursell up your hail hecht on the rug, and then loot doon awee ower the tangs, swingin' to and fro, wi' an expression o' face as serious as if it depended a'thegither at that moment on you, whether or no the earth was to continue to circumvolve on her ain axis.

NORTH.

Tickler puts all his soul, James, into whatever he happens to be doing at the time. Why, he brushes his hat, before turning out at two for a constitutional walk, with as much seeming, nay, real earnestness, as Barry Cornwall polishes a dramatic scene, before making an appeal to posterity.

SHEPHERD.

And baith o' them rub aff the nap. Commend me to a rouch hat and a rouch poem-a smooth hat's shabby-genteel, and a smooth poem's no muckle better. I like the woo on the ane to show shadows to the breeze--and the lines o' the ither to wanton like waves on the sea, that, even at the verra cawmest, breaks out every noo and then into little foam-furrows, characteristic o' the essential and the eternal difference atween the waters o' an inland loch, and them o' the earth-girdlin' ocean.

NORTH.

Come, my dear James, don't keep Tickler any longer in untinkling atti

tude.

SONG," John Nicholson's Daughter.”

THE daisy is fair, the day lily rare,

The bud o' the rose as sweet as it's bonnie-
But there ne'er was a flower, in garden or bower,
Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonnie Nannie.
O my Nannie,

My dear little Nannie,

My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nannie,
There ne'er was a flower,

In garden or bower,

Like auld Joe Nicholson's Nannie.

Ae day she came out wi' a rosy blush,
To milk her twa kye, sae couthie an' cannie-
I cower'd me down at the back o' the bush,
To watch the air o' my bonnie Nannie.
O my Nannie, &c. &c.

Her looks so gay, o'er Nature away,

Frae bonnie blue een sae mild and mellow-
Saw naething sae sweet, in Nature's array,
Though clad in the morning's gouden yellow.
O my Nannie, &c. &c.

My heart lay beating the flowery green,
In quaking, quavering agitation-

And the tears came trickling down frae my een,
Wi' perfect love, an' wi' admiration.
O my Nannie, &c. &c.

There's mony a joy in this world below,

And sweet the hopes that to sing were uncannie-
But of all the pleasures I ever can know,

There's none like the love o' my dearest Nannie.
O my Nannie,

My dear little Nannie,

My sweet little niddlety-noddlety Nannie-
There ne'er was a flower,

In garden or bower,

Like auld Joe Nicholson's Nannie.

NORTH.

Bravo! You have sent that song to our friend Pringle's Friendship's Of fering-haven't you, James?

SHEPHERD.

I hae-and anither as gude, or better.Enter MR AMBROSE with a hot roasted Round of Beef-KING PEPIN with a couple of boiled Ducks-SIR DAVID GAM with a trencher of Tripe, a la Meg Dods-and TAPITOURIE with a Haggis. Pickled Salmon, Welch Rabbits, &c. &c.—and, as usual, Oysters, raw, stewed, scolloped, roasted, and pickled, of course-Gizzards, Finzeans, Red Herrings.

SHEPHERD.

You've really served up a bonny wee neat bit sooper for three, Mr Awmrose. I hate, for my ain pairt, to see a table overloaded. It's sae vulgar. I'll carve the haggis.

NORTH.

I beseech you, James, for the love of all that is dear to you, here and hereafter, to hold your hand. Stop-stop-stop!

(The SHEPHERD sticks the Haggis, and the Table is instantly overflowed.)

SHEPHERD.

Heavens and earth! Is the Haggis mad? Tooels! Awmrose-tooels! Safe us-we'll a' be drooned!

(Picardy and his Tail rush out for towels.)

NORTH.

Rash man! what ruin have you wrought! See how it has overflown the deck from stem to stern-we shall all be lost.

SHEPHERD.

Sweepin' every thing afore it! Whare's the puir biled dyucks? Only the croon-head o' the roun' visible! Tooels-tooels-tooels! Send roun' the firedrum through the city.

(Re-enter Picardy and “ the Rest" with napery.)

MR AMBROSE.

Mr North, I look to you for orders in the midst of this alarming calamity. Shall I order in more strength?

SHEPHERD.

See-see-sir! it's creepin' alang the carpet! We're like men left on a sand-bank, when the tide's comin' in rampaugin'. Oh! that I had insured my life! Oh! that I had learned to soom! What wull become o' my widow and my fatherless children!

Silence! Let us die like men.

NORTH.

SHEPHERD.

O, Lord! it's ower our insteps already! Open a' the doors and wundowsand let it find its ain level. I'll up on a chair in the meantime.

(The SHEPHERD mounts the back of The Chair, and draws MR NORTH up after him.)

Sit on my shoothers, my dear-dear-dearest sir. I insist on't. Mr Tickler, Mr Awmrose, King Pepin, Sir David, and Tappitourie-you wee lazy deevil-help Mr North up-help Mr North up on my shoothers!

(MR NORTH is elevated, Crutch and all, astride on the SHEPHERD'S

shoulders.)

NORTH.

Good God! Where is Mr Tickler?

SHEPHERD.

Look-look-look, sir,-yonner he's staunin' on the brace-piece-on the mantel! Noo, Amrose, and a' ye waiters, make your escape, and leave us to our fate. Oh! Mr North, gie us a prayer.-What for do you look so meeserable, Mr Tickler? Death is common-'tis but "passing through Natur' to Eternity!" And yet to be drooned in haggis 'll be waur than Clarence's dream! Alack, and alas-a-day! it's up to the ring o' the bell-rope! Speak, Mr Tickler-O speak, sir-Men in our dismal condition-Are you sittin' easy, Mr North?

NORTH.

Quite so, my dear James, I am perfectly resigned. Yet, what is to become of Maga

Dinna say't, sir-dinna say't. I'm like the pious Æneas bearin' his father Ancheeses through the flames o' Troy. The similie does na haud gude at a' points-I wish it did-Oh, haud fast, sir, wi' your arms roun' my neck, lest the cruel tyrant o' a haggis swoop ye clean awa under the sideboard to inevitable death!

NORTH.

Far as the eye can reach it is one wide wilderness of suet!

Hurra! hurra! hurra!

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

Do you hear the puir gentleman, Christopher? It's affeckin' to men in our

condition to see the pictur we hae baith read o' in accounts o' shipwrecks realeezed! Timothy's gane mad! Hear till him shoutin' wi' horrid glee on the brink o' eternity!

The haggis is subsiding-the haggis is subsiding! It has fallen an inch by the sabbase since the Shepherd's last ejaculation.

SHEPHERD.

If you're tellin' a lee, Timothy, I'll wade ower to you, and bring you doon aff the mantel wi' the crutch.-Can I believe my een? It is subseedin'. Hurraw! hurraw! hurraw! Nine times nine, Mr North, to our deliverance -and the Protestant ascendency!

Hurra! hurraw! hurree!

Noo, sir, you may dismunt.

OMNES.

SHEPHERD.

(Re-enter the Household, with the immediate neighbourhood.)

SHEPHERD.

High Jinks! High Jinks! High Jinks! The haggis has puttin' out the fire, and sealed up the boiler

(The SHEPHERD descends upon all fours, and lets MR NORTH off gently.)

NORTH.

Oh, James, I am a daft auld man!

SHEPHERD.

No sae silly as Solomon, sir, at you're time o' life. Noo for sooper.

TICKLER.

How the devil am I to get down?

SHEPHERD.

How the deevil did you get up? Oh, ho, by the gas ladder! And it's been removed in the confusion. Either jump down-or stay where you are, Mr Tickler.

TICKLER.

Come now, James-shove over the ladder.

SHEPHERD.

O that Mr Chantrey was here to sculptur him in that attitude! Streitch out your richt haun'! A wee grain heicher! Hoo gran he looks in basso relievo!

TICKLER.

Shove over the ladder, you son of the mist, or I'll brain you with the crystal.

SHEPHERD.

Sit doon, Mr North, opposite to me-and, Mr Awmrose, tack roun' my plate for a shave o' the beef.-Is na he the perfeck pictur o' the late Right Honourable William Pitt?-Shall I send you, sir, some o' the biled dyuck?

NORTH.

If you please, James-Rather "Like Patience on a monument smiling at Grief."

SHEPHERD.

Gie us a sang, Mr Tickler, and then you shall hae the ladder. I never preed a rosted roun' afore-it's real savoury.

NORTH.

"Oh! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The height where Fame's proud temple shines afar!"

SHEPHERD.

I'll let you doon, Mr Tickler, if you touch the ceilin' wi' your fingers. Itherwise, you maun sing a sang.

TICKLER.

[TICKLER tries and fails.

Well, if I must sing, let me have a tumbler of toddy.

Ye shall hae that, sir.

SHEPHERD.

(The SHEPHERD fills a tumbler from the jug, and balancing it on the cross of the crutch, reaches it up to MR TICKLER.)

TICKLER.- —(sings.)

THE TWA MAGICIANS.

The lady stands in her bower door,
As straight as willow wand;
The blacksmith stood a little forbye,
Wi' hammer in his hand.

Weel may ye dress ye, lady fair,

Into your robes o' red,
Before the morn at this same time,
I'll loose your silken snood.

Awa', awa', ye coal-black smith,
Wou'd ye do me the wrang,
To think to gain my virgin love,
That I hae kept sae lang?

Then she has hadden up her hand,
And she sware by the mold,
I wu'dna be a blacksmith's wife
For a' the warld's gold.

O! rather I were dead and gone,

And my body laid in grave,
Ere a rusty stock o' coal-black smith,
My virgin love shou'd have.

But he has hadden up his hand,
And he sware by the mass,
I'll cause ye be my light leman,
For the hauf o' that and less.
Chorus. O bide, lady bide,

And aye he bade her bide;

The rusty smith your leman shall be,
For a' your meikle pride.

Then she became a turtle dow,
To fly up in the air;
And he became another dow,
And they flew pair and pair.
O bide, lady, bide, &c.

She turn'd herself into an eel,
To swim into yon burn;

And he became a speckled trout,
To give the eel a turn.
O bide lady, bide, &c.

Then she became a duck, a duck,
Upon a reedy lake;
And the smith wi' her to soom or dive,
Became a rose-kamed drake.
O bide, lady, bide, &c.

She turn'd herself into a hare,
To rin ower hill and hollow;
And he became a gude grey hound,
And boldly he did follow.
O bide, lady, bide, &c.

Then she became a gay grey mare,
And stood in yonder slack;
And he became a gilt saddle,
And sat upon her back.

O bide, lady, bide, &c.

Then she became a het girdle,
And he became a cake;
And a' the ways she turn'd hersell,
The blacksmith was her make.
O bide, lady, bide, &c.

She turn'd hersell into a ship,

To sail out ower the flood;
He ca'd a nail intill her tail,
And syne the ship she stood.
O bide, lady, bide, &c.

Then she became a silken plaid,
And stretch'd upon a bed :
And he became a green covering,
And thus the twa were wed.
Chorus. Was she wae, he held her sae,
And still he bade her bide;
The rusty-smith her leman was,
For a' her meikle pride.

SHEPHERD.

Noo-sir-here is the ladder to you-for which you're indebted to Mr Peter Buchan, o' Peterhead, the ingenious collector o' the Ancient Ballads, frae which ye have chanted so speeritedly the speerited Twa Magicians. It's a capital collection-and should be added in a' libraries, to Percy, and Ritson, and Headley, and the Minstrelsy o' the Border, and John Finlay, and Robert Jamieson, and Gilchrist, and Kinloch, and the Quarto o' that clever chiel, Motherwell o' Paisley, wha's no only a gude collector and commentator o' ballads, but a gude writer o' them too-as he has proved by that real poetical address o' a Northman to his Swurd in ane o' the Annals. Come awa' doon, sir-come awa' doon.-Tak tent, for the steps are gae shoggly. Noo-sir-fa' to the roun'.

TICKLER.

I have no appetite, James. I have been suffering all night under a complication of capital complaints-the toothach, which like a fine attenuated redhot steel-sting, keeps shooting through an old rugged stump, which to touch