Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese "Stilton or Cheshire, sir?"- 'Ah! vat you please." And now our Frenchman, having ta'en his fill,

66

Prepares to go, when Sir, your little bill!"

Ah, vat you're Bill! Vell, Mr. Bill, good day!
Bon jour, good Villiam.”—“No, sir, stay;
My name is Tom, sir — you've this bill to pay.”
"Pay, pay, ma foi!

I call for noting, sare― pardonnez moi!

You bring me vat you call your goose, your cheese,
You ask-a-me to eat; I tell you, Vat you please!"
Down came the master, each explain'd the case,
The one with cursing, t'other with grimace!
But Boniface, who dearly loved a jest

(Although sometimes he dearly paid for it),
And finding nothing could be done (you know,
That when a man has got no money,

To make him pay some would be rather funny),
Of a bad bargain made the best,

Acknowledged much was to be said for it;
Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face,
And, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe,
Laugh'd heartily, and let him go.
Our Frenchman's hunger thus subdued,
Away he trotted in a merry mood;

When turning round the corner of a street,
Who but his countryman he chanced to meet!
To him, with many a shrug and many a grin,
He told him how he'd taken Jean Bull in!
Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congee, and seeks the shop of shops.
Entering, he seats himself, just at his ease,
"What will you take, sir?"—"Vat you please."

The waiter turned as pale as Paris plaster,
And up-stairs running, thus address'd his master:
"These vile mounseers come over sure in pairs;
Sir, there's another ‘Vat you please!' down-stairs."
This made the landlord rather crusty,

Too much of one thing — the proverb's somewhat musty.

Once to be done, his anger didn't touch,

But when a second time they tried the treason,
It made him crusty, sir, and with good reason,
You would be crusty were you done so much.

66

There is a kind of instrument

Which greatly helps a serious argument,

And which, when properly applied, occasions
Some most unpleasant tickling sensations!

'Twould make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip,

"Twill strike you presently - a stout horsewhip.

This instrument our Maître l'Hôte

Most carefully concealed beneath his coat;
And seeking instantly the Frenchman's station,
Addressed him with the usual salutation.

Our Frenchman, bowing to his threadbare knees,
Determined whilst the iron's hot to strike it,
Pat with his lesson, answers —"Vat you please!"
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip,

Than round his shoulders twines the pliant whip!
Sare, sare! ah, misericorde, parbleu!

Oh, dear, Monsieur, vat make you use me so?

66

Vat you call dis?" Oh, don't you know?

That's what I please," says Bonny, "how d'ye like it?
Your friend, though I paid dearly for his funning,
Deserved the goose he gained, sir, for his cunning;
But you, Monsieur, or else my time I'm wasting,
Are goose enough, and only wanted basting."

James Robinson Planché

TAM O'SHANTER: A TALE

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet;
As market-days are wearin' late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did cantei,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonnie lassies).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as long as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon!
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how monie counsels sweet,
How monie lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale: - Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither

They had been fou for weeks thegither!

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' secret favors, sweet and precious;
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, it's bloom is shed!
Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white - then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time or tide;

The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,
That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare Meg,

A better never lifted leg,

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,

Despising wind, and rain, and fire;

Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,

Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares:

Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,

Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was 'cross the ford,

Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane

Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane:

And through the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours a' his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash frae pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst mak us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the Devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion, brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels:

A winnock-bunker, in the east,

There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast;

A tousie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge;

He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.

Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip sleight
Each in its cauld hand held a light, -

By which heroic Tam was able

To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief new-cutted frae a rape,

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;