Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white se'enteen-hunder linen,
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie.

There was ae winsome wench and walie,

That night enlisted in the core,

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country side in fear ;)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longtitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie—
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,)
Wad ever grace a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was, and strang,)
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glow'r'd and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main ;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant a' was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'lt get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate soon will be a waefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross:
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam with furious ettle,
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, tak' heed:
Whene'r to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys ow'r dear—
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

HON. MRS. CAROLINE NORTON.

WORD was brought to the Danish King
(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
O ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl,
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O! ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the King rode first,
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His nobles are beaten, one by one,

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His fair little page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying!

The King looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;

They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the King rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying!

The King blew a blast on his bugle horn;
(Silence !)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn

แ

An echo returned on the cold grey morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing..
The castle portal stood grimly wide;

None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.

The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eyeing,

The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:

"O, steed—that every nerve didst strain,

Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain

To the halls where my love lay dying!

MYNHEER VON WODENBLOCK.

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

[This story has been admirably versified by the late Thomas Hudson, comic song writer and vocalist, and will be recognised by many as the original of the far-famed comic song of " The Cork Leg."]

He who has been at Rotterdam will remember a house of two stories, which stands in the suburbs, just adjoining the basin of the canal that runs between that city and the Hague, Leyden, and other places. I say he will remember it, for it must have been pointed out to him, as having been once inhabited by the most ingenious artist that Holland ever produced, to say nothing of his daughter, the prettiest maiden ever born within hearing of the croaking of a frog. It is not with the fair Blanche, unfortunately, that we have at present anything to do; it is with the old gentleman, her father. His profession was that of a surgical instru

ment maker, but his fame principally rested on the admirable skill with which he constructed wooden and cork legs. So great was his reputation in this department of human science, that they whom nature or accident had curtailed, caricatured, and disappointed in so very necessary an appendage to the body, came limping to him in crowds, and, however desperate their case might be, were very soon, as the saying is, set upon their legs again. Many a cripple, who had looked upon his deformity as incurable, and whose only consolation consisted in an occasional sly hit at Providence, for having intrusted his making to a journeyman, found himself so admirably fitted-so elegantly propped up by Mynheer Turningvort—that he almost began to doubt whether a timber or cork supporter was not, on the whole, superior to a more commonplace and troublesome one of flesh and blood. And, in good truth, if you had seen how very handsome and delicate were the understandings fashioned by the skilful artificer, you would have been puzzled to settle the question yourself, the more especially if, in your real toes, you were ever tormented with gout or corns.

One morning, just as Master Turningvort was giving its final smoothness and polish to a calf and ankle, a messenger entered his studio (to speak classically), and requested that he would immediately accompany him to the mansion of Mynheer Von Wodenblock. It was the mansion of the richest merchant in Rotterdam; so the artist put on his best wig, and set forth with his threecornered hat in one hand, and his silver-headed stick in the other. It so happened that Mynheer Von Wodenblock had been very laudably employed, a few days before, in turning a poor relation out of doors, but, in endeavouring to hasten the odious wretch's progress down stairs by a slight impulse a posteriore (for Mynheer seldom stood upon ceremony with poor relations), he had unfortunately lost his balance, and, tumbling headlong from the top to the bottom, found, on recoverhis senses, that he had broken his right leg, and that