awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the "Public Advertiser," November 14th, 1782, anonymously.

A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons' Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung as a common ballad in the streets. It has preserved its popularity to the present date. The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred

years.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,

A trainband captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
"Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.

"To-morrow is our wedding day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.

"My sister, and my sister's child, Myself, and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we."

He soon replied, "I do admire

Of womankind but one,

And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.

"I am a linendraper bold,

As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go."

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said:
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,
Which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

He

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in;

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad!
The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got, in haste to ride,-
But soon came down again;

For saddletree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin,

When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind,

When Betty screaming came downstairs"The wine is left behind!"

"Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !)
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe,

His long red coat, well brushed and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.

He hides behind a magisterial air
His own offences, and strips others bare;
Affects indeed a most humane concern
That men, if gently tutored, will not learn;
That mulish folly, not to be reclaimed
By softer methods, must be made ashamed;
But (I might instance in St. Patrick's Dean)*
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.
Most satirists are indeed a public scourge;
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge;
Their acrid temper turns, as soon as
stirred,

The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,

By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. No skill in swordmanship, however just, Can be secure against a madman's thrust; And even virtue, so unfairly matched, Although immortal, may be pricked or

scratched.

When scandal has new minted an old lie,
Or taxed invention for a fresh supply,
'Tis called a satire, and the world appears
Gathering around it with erected ears:
A thousand names are tossed into the
crowd,
[aloud,
Some whispered softly, and some twanged
Just as the sapience of an author's brain
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash;
The important letters that include the rest
Serve as a key to those that are supprest;
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,
The world is charmed, and Scrib escapes
the law.

So when the cold damp shades of night prevail,

Worms may be caught by either head or

tail;

Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, They meet with little pity, no redress; Plunged in the stream, they lodge upon the mud,

Food for the famished rovers of the flood.

All zeal for a reform that gives offence To peace and charity is mere pretence: A bold remark, but which, if well applied, Would humble many a towering poet's pride.

Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,

had no other play-place for his wit;

* Dean Swift.

Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame;

Perhaps whatever end he might pursue, The cause of virtue could not be his view. At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes; The turns are quick, the polished points surprise,

But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, [alarms. That, while they please, possess us with So have I seen (and hastened to the sight On all the wings of holiday delight), Where stands that monument of ancient power,

Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, Guns, halberds, swords and pistols, great and small,

In starry forms disposed upon the wall: We wonder, as we gazing stand below, That brass and steel should make so fine a show;

(skill, But though we praise the exact designer's Account them implements of mischief still.

THE MODERN PATRIOT. REBELLION is my theme all day; only wish 't would come

(As who knows but perhaps it may?)
A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On t' other side the Atlantic,
I always held them in the right,

But most so when most frantic.
When lawless mobs insult the court,
That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport,
Who bravely breaks the most.

But oh! for him my fancy culls

The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls

Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight,

Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them.

A rope! I wish we patriots had

Such strings for all who need 'emWhat? hang a man for going mad! Then farewell British freedom.

ROBERT BURNS.

1759-1796.

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' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, an' stiles,
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 canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonny lasses).

O Tam, hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November to October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober, That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang 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, e'en on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou wad be found deep drowned in Doon, Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthened sage advices The husband fra 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 Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter, And aye the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, 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 whustle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy. As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure. Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills of life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spreadYou seize the flow'r. its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the riverA moment white, then melts for ever; 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 key-
stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he tacks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed,
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:
That night a child might understand
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg (A better never lifted leg),

Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles hauding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots

sonnet;

Whiles glow'ring round with prudent care,
Lest bogles catch him unaware:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; 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 murdered bairn; And near the thorn aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars through the wuds;