Round upon your reason turns he,
'Smugglers live in Lynn and Guernsey-
Sir, it inundates the whole land,
Irish corn is grown in Poland!"

V.

Laden deep with culm or coal,
The Braunton Skipper-thirsty soul!
Feels faint as billows round him roll:
For what is lime compared with life?
And thoughts of children and of wife
Arise, or of some rosy charmer-
O! for the life of Braunton farmer!
O! that he could but strike his sail,
And plough his furrows in the vale ;
But, wafted by the changing gale,
Into the Pill his vessel flies,
And by the Kiln refitting lies;
Then weighs he a contented purse,
And weds,t for better or for worse,
The waves that richly reimburse!

VI.

There's one who loves to pass the day
At Barricane, or Rockham-Bay;
To gaze on ocean from the brow

Of the greensward terrace of Croyde-hoe;
Or watch the flash of the sea-green wave,
By Down-end Coves, or Saunton Cave:

5.

Luctantem Icariis fluctibus Africum
Mercator metuens, otium et oppidi
Laudat rura sui: mox reficit rates
Quassas, indocilis pauperiem pati.

6.

Est qui nec veteris pocula Massici,
Nec partem solido demere de die

*Happily the rise in prices is beginning to cure the Landed Interest of their

Triticophobian Symptoms,

+ Desponsamus te, Mare!

BUCENTAUR AT VENICE.

ス

And oft unsentimentally,
Escaping from romance's eye,
Bolts he a sandwich peppered high,*
Or opes, like antiquarian sly,
Some tumulus-of cold veal-pie,
And tints with spirit brandy-bright
The fountain trickling from the height.

VII.

Many march, with spirits rife,
To roll of drum, and thrill of fife;
And long to join the line display'd
On Berdenstaple's north parade,
Where, horrid fate! the mother's pet
Must learn to fix a bayonet.

VIII.

The sportsman dares the morning chill,
His bird, or time, or dog to kill;
(Forgetful of his wife so dear,
Left to finish her nap in Bedfordshire)
Or drops awhile the dastard+ gun
To see his sinewy greyhound run;
Or backs the steed that never flags,
To chase the first of royal stags.

Spernit; nunc viridi membra sub arbuto
Stratus, nunc ad aquæ lene caput sacræ.

7.

Multos castra juvant, et lituo tubæ
Permistus sonitus, bellaque matribus
Detestata!

8.

Manet sub Jove frigido

Venator, teneræ conjugis immemor,
Seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus,

Seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas.

* The Braunton public &c. must be pretty well aware that it is the fashion, in Summer, to take one's Sandwich and Grog at the Cave, or Croyde, or Barricane. + Henry 4th, Part 1st. Hotspur's defence, in Act 1, Scene 3d.

The angler trims his fly, or float, or
Nets the river: like an otter
Lurking long, and luring out
The salmon peal, or speckled trout.

IX.

Me, unheeding sport's 'tantivy,'
Crowns the wreath of learned ivy,
Mingling me, in all due order,
With the Bards of Lake and Border*
Me, the woodland Fanciest dancing,
Satire's pointed toe advancing,
Graceful ode, or Epic prancing,
From the busy crowd secluse;
Should the muses not refuse
Harp and tabret to amuse.

X.

But, if you my Patron, listening,
At the hour of star-light glistening,
Call on me to sing at christening,
Or at beauty's nuptial party,
Or at Christmas carol hearty,
I the dear affront shall pocket,
And like any Congreve rocket,
Far above our rustic Laity
Soar into the stars for gaiety.

9.

Me doctarum ederæ, præmia frontium
Dis miscent superis; Me gelidum nemus
Nympharumque leves cum Satyris chori
Secernunt populo: Si neque tibias
Euterpe cohibet, nec Polyhymnia
Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton.

10.

Quod si me Lyricis vatibus inseris
Sublimi feriam sidera vertice!

* Modern Critics have classed our Poetry by the residences of the Poets; thus Scott, Cunningham, and Hogg are the Poets of the Border, while Wordsworth, Southey, and Co., have obtained the title of Lake Poets

+

Fancy's child,

Warbled his native woodnotes wild.

LOGAN.

N.B. Some people are very much put out at being asked to sing.

When business is irksome and troubles perplex me,
Be mine the gay feast at the board of a friend,
Where no cares annoy me, no clients can vex me,
While round still and round the red nectar we send.

2.

Then push round the wine while the first toast is given, The nearest our heart, boys, in freedom's dear cause, The Church and the King!' so long favored by heaven, The shield of religion, the guardian of laws!

3.

And now having sanctioned our cause by our duty,
Let duty and pleasure unite in the strain,
Devote we a glass, boys, to love and to beauty,
'Our Wives and our Sweethearts!' a bumper again!

4.

Our friends, tho' their help we may pray for less need of,
We wish them all well, whether here or away,
So fill up and drink, boys, a bumper with speed off,
"The friends that think of us with kindness to-day.'

5.

And while to our social improvement each neighbour
In song or in glee helps the evening along,

A bumper, my boys, the reward of his labour,

6

The toast, Our friend's health, and his very good song.

As our host fetches out the old store he most prizes,
The wit and the mirth of the party too mends,
For with wine we can drown every care as it rises,
And earth has no charm like a circle of friends.

J.

A TRUE NARRATIVE.

A GREAT many years ago when I was a fine little boy, it suited the convenience of my parents to put me out to nurse for a twelvemonth, at a worthy old farmer's at the foot of Cairn Gorm, in Strathspey; one snowy night in March (I remember it Mr. Editor as distinctly as I remember last Christmas) auld Duncan Macgillivray got a thought uneasy about some sheep and lambs that lay a matter of a half mile from the town. Now Duncan had two fine lads of sons, Donald, a solid, sensible, stout chap about three-and-twenty, and Rory, two years, or may be three, younger, a wild, thoughtless fellow, and a perfect deevil for dancing and flattering the lasses. So, in spite of the weather, with the promise of a bottle of ale to their pottage after they came back (for there was none of your Sassenach wastry in honest Duncan's house) the lads were won over to see after the sheep.

Now the sheep had strayed. a good way off in search of shelter, and as they passed a bare exposed hill where wall never stood, nor grass grew, they were almost frightened to the other side of their senses, by seeing a fine, handsome. tower with lights, glancing from the windows, and pipes and fiddles skirling to the roof again. I have often and often thought that Robbie Burns must have heard Duncan Macgillivray's story, when he wrote his ballad about Tam O'Shanter; for, just like Tam, the two lads could not help peeping; and there, in the inside, they were at it, lads and lasses dancing like mad. And aye the tune changed, and was sweeter and sweeter; and aye the next new dance was livelier than the last, till at last his human nature failed him, and Rory leaped in among them through the window; and, sirs! how he danced that night!

Sair, sair, was Donald's heart, douce lad! and well he ken't the company his brother was in were no canny; he liked dancing well, and he liked music better; but now his brother was in their unearthly hands, his heart failed him, and he thought only upon his danger, soul and body, and how to win him out of it; to follow him, he knew, was to share his fate, without doing him any good, and to leave his old father and mother in misery. Long did he pray, through the window, that Rory would just leap out, as he leaped in, and just help him with the sheep, and then join the dance again; for, thinks Donald, if I but get the chield fairly in sight of heaven again, we'll see whether he join them or no.