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SHEPHERD.

Hoo are ye, my fine little fellow? Come forward into the middle o’the room. Stretch out your right arm somsquare your shouthers--haud up your headtake care oʻyour pronounciation et perge, puer.

MASTER AMBROSE.

Though the place that once knew us will know us no more,

And splendours unwonted arise on our view,-
Though no fond remembrance past scenes could restore,
Our dearly loved parlour we still must deplore,

And remember the Old, while we drink to the New !

How oft in that parlour, so joyous and gay,

The laurel was wreath'd with the clustering vine ;
While the spirit of Maga held absolute sway,
And the glorious beams of the bright god of day
Seem'd

in envious haste the fair scene to outshine !

Oh! changed are the days, it may truly be said,

Since first we met there in our social glee,
For a faction then ruled with a sceptre of lead,
Debasing the heart, and perverting the head,

And enthralling the land of the brave and the free!

That sceptre is broken—that faction is gone,

In scorn and derision we've seen it expire.
While the brightness of Maga has everywhere shone,
It has blazed on the altar, and beam'd on the throne,

And kindled a more than Promethean fire!

Of our honours and glories our children may tell,

Be it ours the triumphant career to pursue,
Each foe of his King and his country to quell,
The darkness of error and fraud to dispel,

And laugh at the dunces in Yellow and Blue !

We have one who will stand as he ever has stood,

Like a tower that despises the whirlwind's rage,
By time and by labour alike unsubdued,
He will still find the wise, and the fair, and the good,

Admiring the Wit, and revering the Sage !

And he who supreme in Arcadia reigns,

With his heart-stirring Doric our meetings will cheer ;
The pride of our mountains and emerald plains,
The joy of our nymphs, the delight of our swains,

Rejoicing each eye, and refreshing each ear!

And the Hero of many a glorious field,

His best and his happiest hours will recall,
The sword and the pen alike powerful to wield,
With generous spirit disdaining to yield,

Except to the spirit that conquers us All!

And he who has ever, in danger and doubt,

To his glorious cause been so loyal and true,
Defying

the Cockneys, the Whigs, and the gout,
His Io TRIUMPHE ! still boldly will shout,

And proudly will hear it re-echoed by You!

The year that approaches new triumphs will bring,

Entwining new wreaths for each bold loyal brow,
And for many a year our new roof-tree will ring
With the voice that is raised for our country and King,

Inspired by the thoughts that awaken it now!

The days that are gone, we can never regret,

While gilded with honour they rise on our view;
And when here in our power and our pride we are met,
Our dearly-loved parlour we ne'er shall forget,

But remember the Old, while we drink to the New!

TICKLER

Most precocious ! Pope did not write anything equal to it at thirteen, It beats the Ode to Solitude all to sticks. Are you at the New Academy, Master Ambrose ?

MASTER AMBROSE.

TICKLER.

No, sir-at the High School.

Right. You live in the vicinity. Is it not a burning shame, Shepherd, that the many thousand rich and prosperous men who have been educated at the High School, cannot_will not-raise a sụm sufficient to build a new Edifice on a better site ?

SHEPHERD.

It disna tell weel.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

A High School there must be, as well as an Academy. Both should have fair play, and education will be greatly bettered by the generous rivalry. Never were there better masters in the High School than now-gentlemen and scholars all. One loses all patience to hear the gabble about Parthenons, forsooth, when about eight or ten thousand pounds is all that is wanted to build, on Hamilton's beautiful plan, a school for the education of the sons of the citizens of modern Athens. Thank you, Master Ambrose.-(Exit High-School Boy.) A fine, modest, intelligent boy!

Just uncommon. The Embro' folk I never could thoroughly understand, and yet I bae studied them closely in a' ranks, frae the bench to the bar, I may say, from the poopit to the pozzi. They couldna' build their ain College-they wunna build their ain High School ; and yet, to hear them talk o' their city o’ palaces, you would think they were all so many Lorenzoes the Magnificent.

The English laugh at us. Look at London-look at Liverpool. Is money wanted for any noble purpose ? In a single day, you have hundreds of thousands.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

SHEPHERD.

Come, come-let us be in better humour. Is the oysters verra gude this season? I shanna stir frae this chair till I hae devoored five score o' them. That's just my allowance on coming in frae the kintra.

TICKLER. James, that is a most superb cloak. Is the clasp pure gold? You are likean officer of Hussars—like one of the Prince's Own. Spurs too, I protest!

Sit closer, Mr Tickler, sit closer, man ; light your cigar, and puff away like a steam-engine—though ye ken I just detest smokin' ;--for I hae a secret to communicate-a secret oʻsome pith and moment, Mr Tickler ; and I want to see your face in a' the strength o'its maist natural expression, when I am let. tin' you intil't.-Fill your glass, sir.

Don't tell it to me, James-don't tell it to me; for the greatest enjoyment I have in this life is to let out a secret-especially if it has been confided to me as a matter of life and death.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

I'll rin a' hazards. I maun out wi't to you; for I hae aye had the most profoun' respect for your abeelities, and I hae a pleasure in geein' you the start o'the world for four-and-twenty hours. I am noo the Yeditor o' Blackwood's Magazine.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us !

Why, you see, sir, they couldna do without me. North's gettin' verra auld,—and, between you and me, rather doited—crabbed to the contributors, and-come hither wi' your lug-no verra ceevil to Ebony himsel ;--so out comes letter upon letter to me, in Yarrow yonder, fu' o'the maist magnificent offers, indeed, telling me to fix my ain terms; and faith, just to get rid o' the endless fash o’letters by the carrier, I druve into toun here, in the whusky, through Peebles, on the Saturday o' the hard frost, and that same night, was installed into the Yeditorship in the Sanctum Sanctorum.

Well, James, all that Russian affair is a joke to this. Nicholas, Constantine, and the old Mother-Empress, may go to the devil and shake themselves, now that you, my dear, dear Shepherd, are raised to the Scottish throne.

Wha wad ha' thocht it, Mr Tickler-wha wad ha'thocht it—that day when I first entered the Grass-Market, wi' a' my flock afore me, and Hector youfe youfin' round the Gallow-Stane-where, in days of yore, the saints

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

Sire?

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

Nane o' your mockin.-- I'm the Editor; and, to prove't, I'll order in the Balaam-box.

James, as you love me, open not that box.-Pandora's was a joke to it.

Ha! ha! ha! Mr Tickler, you're feared that I'll lay my haun on yane o' your articles. O man, but you're a vain auld chiel ; just a bigot to your ain abeelities. But hear me, sir ; you maun compose in a mair classical style, gin you think o' continuing a contributor. I must not let down the character of the work to flatter a few feckless fumblers. Mr Ambrose-Mr Ambrose-the Balaam-box, I tell you, I hae been ringing this half-hour for the Balaam. box.

MR AMBROSE.

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TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

MR AMBROSE.

Here is the Safe, sir. I observe the spider is still in the key-hole; but as Mr North, God bless him, told me not to disturb him, I have given him a few flies daily that I found in an old bottle; perhaps he will get out of the way when he feels the key.

James, that spider awakens in my mind the most agreeable recollections.
Dang your speeders. But, Mr Ambrose, where's the Monthly Budget?
Here, sir.

SHEPHERD (emptying the green bag on the table.)
Here, Mr Tickler. Here's a sight for sair een,-materials for a dizzen
Numbers. Arrange them by tens,—that's right; what a show! I'm rich
aneuch to pay aff the national debt. Let us see,-" Absenteeism.” The spee-
der maun be disturbed, -into the Balaam-box must this article go,-Gude
preserve us, what a weight ! I wonder what my gude auld father wad hae said,
had he lived to see the day, when it became a great public question, whether
it was better or waur for a country that she should hae nae inhabitants !

Here's an essay on Popular Education.
Rax't ower. Ay, ay, I see how it is,-Institutions, Mechanic Institutions.

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TICKLER.

SHEPHERD.

That’s no the way, in the ordinary coorse o' nature, that the mind acquires knowledge. As the general wealth and knowledge of the country increases, men, in all conditions, will of themselves become better informed. Then the education of the young will be better attended to-generation after generation that will be the case,—till, feenally, education will be general in town and country, and the nation will be more enlightened, powerful, happy, and free. But now, they are putting the cart before the horse ; and the naig will get reesty, and kick aff the breeching.

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Fling it into the fire;-poetry's a drog. Queen Hynde is still in her first edition.

TICKLER.

The evil has wrought its own cure. But, on my honour, the verses are pretty. Another version of our favourite German song.-I'll sing them to the fiddle.

(TICKLER sings to his Cremona.)
The Rhine! the Rhine !—May on thy flowing river

The sun for ever shine!
And on thy banks may freedom's light fade never !

Be blessings on the Rhine!
The Rhine! the Rhine !-My fancy still is straying,

To dream of Wilhelmine,
Of auburn locks in balmy zephyrs playing :-

Be blessings on the Rhine!
The German knight the lance has bravely broken

By lofty Schreckenstein;
The German maid the tale of love has spoken

Beside the flowery Rhine.
With patriot zeal the gallant Swiss is fired,

Beside that stream of thine;
The dull Batavian, on thy banks inspired,

Shouts,-Freedom! and the Rhine!-
And shall we fear the threat of foreign foeman ?

Though Europe should combine,
The fiery Frank, the Gaul, the haughty Roman,

Found graves beside the Rhine.-
Germania's sons, fill, fill your foaming glasses

With Hochheim's sparkling wine,
And drink,—while life, and love, and beauty passes,

Be blessings on the Rhine !

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

Faith, ye hae a gran' bow-hand, Mr Tickler. Ye wad be a welcome guest in the kitchen oʻony farm-house in a' Scotlaud, during the lang winter nichts. The lasses “ would loup as they were daft, when ye

blew

up your chanter," Shame on the spinet, and the flute, and a’ instruments, but the fiddle.

Many and oft is the time, James, that in my younger days I have set the shepherd's and farmer's family a-dancing, -on to the sma' hours. They would send out the bit herd laddie to collect the queans,--and they came all flocking in, just a little trigger than when at work,

-a clean mutch, or a ribbon round their foreheads,—their bosoms made cosh and tidy

Whisht, whisht. Ony mair verses amang the materials. Let us collec them a' into a heap, and send them to the cyook to singe the fools. What's that your glowering on, Sub?

SHEPHERD.

TICKLER.

Sub?

SHEPHERD.

Ay, Sub. I create you Sub-yeditor of the Magazine. You maun correc

a' the Hebrew, and Chinese, and German, and Dutch, Greek and Latin, and French and Spanish, and Itawlian. You maun likewise help me wi' the pints, and in kittle words look after the spellin'. Noo and then ye may overhawl, and cut down, and transmogrify an article that's ower lang, or ower stupid in pairts, putting some smeddum in't,--and soomin' a' up wi'a

soundin peroration. North had nae equal at that; and I hae kent him turn out o' his hands a short, pithy, biting article, frae a long, lank, lumbering rigmarole, taken, at a pinch, out the verra Balaam-box. The author wondered at his ain genius and erudition when he read it, and wad gang for a week after up and down the town, asking everybody he met if they had read his leading-article in Ebony. The sumph thocht he had written it himsel! I can never hope to equal Mr North in that faculty, which in him is a gift o' nature; but in a' things else, I am his equal,--and in some, dinna ye think sae, his superior ?

I do. There seems to me something pretty in this little song. To do it justice, I must sing it.

Tune-" The Sailor's Life.

1.
Oh! often on the mountain's side
I've sung with all a shepherd's pride,
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along,
Bore down the burden of the song,

shepherd's life's the life for me,
He tends his flock so merrily,-
He sings his song, and tells his tale,
And is beloved through all the vale.

TICKLER.

2.
When Summer gladdens all the scene
With golden light, and vesture green,

Too short appears the cheerful day,
While thus he pours his artless lay,

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

3.
When winter comes with sullen blast,
And clouds and mists are gathering fast,
He folds his plaid, and on the hill
His blithesome song is with him still

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

4.
And when at eve, with guileless mirth,
He cheers his humble, happy hearth,
The storm without may whistle round,
But still within the song is found-

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

5.
Oh! envy not the palace proud,
With all its gaudy, glittering crowd,
For who would ever be a king,
When on the hill-side he could sing,

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

SHEPHERD.

Tut, tut !-it's wershwersh as a potauto without saut. The writer o' that sang never wore a plaid. What for will clever chaps, wi' a classical education, aye be writin' awa at sangs about us shepherds ? Havers !-Let Burns, and me, and Allan Cunningham talk o' kintra matters, under our ain charge.— We'll put mair real life and love into ae line-aiblins into ae word-than a' the classical callants that ever were at College.

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