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Nothing could surpass, in rustic drollery, and curious extravagance, the manner in which the representative of Auld Glenae delivered this rude and traditional rhyme. The snows and frosts of age seemed to thaw as he proceeded; his voice, at first trembling and weak, and interrupted by painful coughing, waxed stronger and stronger; and ere it reached the third verse, was as loud and sonorous as the note of a Cameronian precentor, when three acres of believers, on a hill side, call for his deepest and fullest note. Kindling too, as it seemed, with the progress of the rhyme, and the instrumental accompaniments, and forgetting the infirmities of years, he proceeded to dance a wild kind of hornpipe, which seemed of a kindred spirit with his verse, and kept exact time with the air of the ballad. The very luxury of the theme, and all its associations, together with some powerful punch, ministered by a willing maiden or two; and which he imbibed without any manifest interruption to his labours, seemed completely to intoxicate the dramatist; in the last verse, he reeled and fell, and, extended as he was on the floor, his heels, and staff, and head, beat audible time, and the song was completed amid unextinguishable laughter.

My love for ancient peasant lore, and the joy that I feel in submitting such a rich and curious relique to the curiosity of mankind, without emendation or mitigation, can only be calculated by those rare and learned spirits, who revere the scrupulous accuracy of Joseph Ritson, and the commendable and gainful credulity of an antiquarian collector of the poetic crumbs of Caledonia. The widow Keturah testified her delight, by clapping her hands before her face, and laughing so loudly, as to be audible above the swell of the song. "Ye're a funny auld man,—and gin ye'll call in by my gate end, ye shall have a gowpin o' meal for an awmous, and a drap o' the best o't-eh, sirs, but him whase head's laigh and happed, was fond o' that sinfu' sweet sang; and I mind o' him ance acting and singing himself-he had on straw boots-on

aye—on aye—and I'm sure Kate Kelloch and me laughed till ye might have bound us wi 'straes-I'll never see his marrow again, though I should be married to-morrow." The Highland damsel gazed with a look of consternation at the approach of the mendicant, but

she soon changed her gaze for that of uncontroulable mirth, when she saw the fantastic gambols he performed, and heard the words of the ballad. My Cameronian maiden alone was unmoved by the labours of the dramatist, and sat and looked on him, and on the meeting, with the mild but sorrowful composure of monumental marble. As the representative of the licentious portioner of Glenae was raised from the floor by the hands of two peasants, the door suddenly opened, and an ancient alms-man, or strolling mendicant, advanced, eyeing, with a look of no ordinary wrath, this counterfeit presentment of himself. "What!" exclaimed the stranger," wilt thou presume to forestall the beggarman's stock of evening pastime? I swear by my right hand pock, called muckle macfenand I swear by its companion, called little macfen-I also swear by that notable bag under my crutch arm, callled oxter-gell, and by that greedy pocket, called pouch apron, and all my bags before and behind, to break thy knaves neck wi' this ashen crutch, if thou dost not instantly make thyself scarce in this goodly company." And suiting the deed to the word, he lifted up a stick, partaking of the offensive natures of crutch and pike-staff, and seemed about to deal the counterfeit mendicant a blow of no friendly kind. But the merry old man, with an agility worthy of seventeen, snatched up the raw skin of a sheep, which he found ready at his foot, in which he shrouded the head and shoulder of this new candidate for sympathy, and pulling off a piece of the purest flax from his head, which had passed current for snowy locks, he threw it on the floor, and darted out at the door, leaving the audience convulsed with laughter, and shouting out, "Bravely done, Penpont."

Our attention was soon recalled to the mendicant before us, whose ancient looks had the same demand upon our reverence as his predecessor. He seemed equipped after the beggar in the old song:

His wallets a-fore and a-hint did hing,

In as gude order as wallets could be, And a lang kale gulley hung down by his

side;

And a muckle nowte horn to rowt on had he.

He thus addressed the Cameronian elder:-" Goodman of Lillycross, ye

have cut the last hookful of standing corn, and brought winter to the land -fair fa' ye, for with winter comes joy and song, and minstrel mirth, and an old man's tale will be rewarded by a patient ear, and a penny siller." "We hae nae time now, ye donard churl," said Hugh Halbertson, " to listen to lang tales; see nae ye the lasses impatient to spring; and hear nae ye the anxious thrumming of the Crowder's fiddle? We might find ye lugs for a

brief sang, sae be'et that it lacks thae lang screeds o' sheer nonsense, called chorusses, and is nae made up o' rinning streams, and growing birks, and lint-white locks o' lasses." The old man, taking the instrument from the fiddler, proceeded to sing the following song, which has been long current among the humble mendicants of Dumfries-shire, to a tune which seemed to spring from the same source as the song:

THE BEGGARMAN'S SONG.

1.

Were I a king, a crowned king,
Hearken and hear how I would ryng-
Gude croudy in my crapin should craw,
In gude brown ale I'd douk and drown me,
And make my bed ell deep o' straw,
With a' the sacks o' the town aboon me.

2.

Were I a king, a crowned one,

Hearken how I would keep my throne

I'd reign in state, 'neath the green thorn tree,
And bed my feet with new pulled rashes;
The midnight sage, to counsel me,
Should be a pair o' kilted lasses.

3.

Were I a king, with gold on my brow,
Hearken and hear how I would do-
I'd cut the craigs o' the farmer's tykes,
And pu' the tongue o' my lady's messan,
And burn the stocks, and break the jougs,
And win the blythesome beggar's blessing.

4.

Were I a king, and a sword by my side,
Hearken and hear how I would ride-
I'd pluck the gown o'er the sheriff's neck,
Drown priest, and justice, and the sinner.
Who loves roast-meat should not taste food
Till a blue-gowns man blest the dinner.

Were I a king, with a sceptred hand,
Thus would I ride, and thus command-
I'd level the sheep-folds and hen-roosts;
And the bonny black-cock of the mountain
Should be as free to the blue-gown man,
As the silver fish in flood and fountain.

6.

Were I a king, and wore a crown,
Glory to meal-pocks and patched gowns-
An awmous should be a Carlisle peck,
And the sonsie lass, who spread the bedding,
Should reign my queen, and I would fling
Black stool and sackcloth sark to the midden.

The singular grace and glee with which this rude and characteristic old ballad was sung obtained abundant applause; nor was the skill and agility with which he played and danced, as an accompaniment, undeserving of notice. Sometimes he kept the fiddle to his chin with becoming gravity, or shifted it to the crown of his head, and placed it behind his back, maintaining the harmony necessary to the performance through all those evolutions. When the mendicant ceased, all the old men and matrons rose, and, swathing themselves in their mauds, drank a farewell cup to the welfare of Lillycross, and its hospitable proprietor; and, issuing forth among the clear moonlight, gathered their children around them, and proceeded home

wards. The mirth of the harvest-kirn, restrained by the presence of so many austere and devout personages, rose loud and louder; and the augmenting din overtook the departing peasants, who listened with a smile, and thought of the days of their youth. The fiddler, cherished by a fuller and a stronger cup, drew a bolder and a merrier bow; and the swains, cheered by the frankness and condescension of the remaining damsels, became boundless in their joy, and made the barn-roof shake to its remotest rafter. Sometime before morning, the Cameronian elder winded his horn, the fiddler returned his instrument to its case, and the merry reapers of Lillycross resumed the usual sanctity of their exterior, under the devotional influence of its pious proprietor.

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HYMN

To the Night Wind.

Unbridled Spirit, throned upon the lap
Of ebon Midnight, whither dost thou stray,
Whence did'st thou come, and where is thy abode?—
From slumber I awaken, at the sound

Of thy most melancholy voice; sublime

Thou ridest on the rolling clouds which take
The forms of sphinx, or hypogriff, or car,
Like those by Roman conquerors of yore,
In Nemean pastimes used, by fiery steeds
Drawn headlong on; or chusest, all unseen,
To ride the vault, and drive the murky storms
Before thee, or bow down, with giant wing,
The wondering forests as thou sweepest_by!

Daughter of Darkness! when remote the noise
Of tumult, and of discord, and mankind,

When but the watch-dog's voice is heard, or wolves
That bay the silent night, or from the tower,
Ruin'd and rent, the note of boding owl,

Or lapwing's shrill and solitary cry,

When sleep weighs down the eyelids of the world,

And life is as it were not, down the sky,

Forth from thy cave, wide roaming thou dost come,
To hold nocturnal orgies.

Round the pile,

Thou moanest wistfully, of dark abbaye,

And silent charnel house; the long lank grass,
The hemlock, and the night-shade, and the yew,

Bend at thy tread; and through the blacken'd rails
Fleetly thou sweepest, with a wailing voice!
Wayworn and woe-begone, the traveller
Bears on through paths unknown; alone he sees
The bright star's fitful twinkling, as along
Night's arch rush sullenly the darksome clouds,
And wilds and melancholy wastes, and streams
VOL. VIII.

3 F

Forlorn, and joyless all; no cottage blaze
Strikes through the weary gloom; alone he hears
Thee, awful Spirit! fighting with the stream
Of rushing torrent, torturing it to foam,
And tossing it aloft; the shadowy woods
Join in the chorus, while lone shrieks and sighs
Burst on his ear, as if infernal fiends

Had burst their adamantine chains, and rush'd
To take possession of this lower world.
His bosom sinks, his spirit fails, his heart
Dies in him, and around his captive soul
Dark superstition weaves her witching spells;
Unholy visions pass before his mind,

Dreams rayless and unhallowed; spectres pale
Glide past with rustling garments; wormy graves
Yawn round him; while the dark and nodding plumes
Of melancholy hearses blast his view!

But not alone to inland solitudes,

To inland regions wide and mountains high,
Man's habitations, or the forests dark,
Are circumscribed thy visitings: Behold!
Stemming with eager prow, the Atlantic tide,
Holds on the intrepid mariner; abroad

The wings of Night brood shadowy; heave the waves
Around him, mutinous, their curling heads,
Portentous of a storm; all hands are plied,
A zealous task, and sounds the busy deck
With notes of preparation; many an eye
Is upward cast toward the clouded heaven;
And many a thought, with troubled tenderness,
Dwells on the calm tranquillity of home;
And many a heart its supplicating prayer

Breathes forth; meanwhile, the boldest sailor's cheek

Blanches; stout courage fails; young childhood's shriek,
Awfully piercing, bursts; and woman's fears
Are speechless. With a low, insidious moan,
Rush past the gales, that harbinger thy way,
And hail thy advent; gloom the murky clouds
Darker around; and heave the maddening waves
Higher their crested summits. With a glare,
Unveiling but the clouds and foaming seas,
Flashes the lightning; then, with doubling peal,
Reverberating to the gates of heaven,

Rolls the deep thunder, with tremendous crash,
Sublime, as if the firmament were rent

Amid the severing clouds, that pour their storms,
Commingling sea and sky.

Disturbed, arise

The monsters of the deep, and wheel around
Their mountainous bulks unwieldy, while aloft,
Foised on the feathery summit of the wave,
Hangs the frail bark, its howlings of despair
Lost on the mocking storm. Then frantic, thou
Dost rise, tremendous Power, thy wings unfurled,
Unfurled, but nor to succour, nor to save;
Then is thine hour of triumph; with a yell,
Thou rushest on; and, with a maniac love,
Sing'st in the rifted shroud; the straining mast

Yields, and the cordage cracks. Thou churn'st the deep
To madness, tearing up the yellow sands

From their profound recesses, and dost strew
The clouds around thee, and within thy hand
Takest up the billowy tide, and dashest down
The vessel to destruction-she is not!
But, when the morning lifts her dewy eye;
And, to a quiet calm, the elements,

Subsiding from their fury, have dispersed,
There art thou, like a satiate conqueror,
Recumbent on the murmuring deep, thy smiles
All unrepentant of the savage wreck!

Yet sometimes art thou, Demon of the night,
An evil spirit ministering to good!-
Mid orient realms, when sultry day hath passed,
Breathless; and sunlight, on the western hill,
Dies with a quick decay; then, oh! how dear,
How welcome to the dry and thirsty glebe,
And to the night of woods, where Pagods rise,
And Bramah's priests adore their deity,
From ocean, journeying with an eagle speed,
Come the delightful fannings of thy wing!
The grateful heaven weeps down refreshing dews,
The twilight stars peep forth with glittering ray;
And earth outspreads the carpet of her flowers,
In tenderness exhaling their perfumes,
To lure within their cups thy gelid breath :→→
There, 'mid the azure landscape, on his roof,
Piazza-girt, watching the evening star,
Among his myrtle blooms, the Indian sits,
Delighted, as with soft refreshing sighs,

Thou wanderest past, lifting his coal-black hair!
The smiles of Vishnoo gleam along the earth;
While, by high plantane groves, by limpid streams,
The maidens roam, as subtile Cambdeo lurks
Behind a lotus tuft; and, from his string
Of living bees, the unerring arrow twangs!
Malignant Genii lose the power to harm;
From Meru Mount the deities look down,
Well pleased, rejoicing in the general joy !

Nor grateful less, unto the realm where shines
Thy glittering crest, Canopus, on the verge
Of the ungirdled hemisphere, and frown
The earth-forsaking pyramids sublime,
In Nilus dipping, through the twilight sky,
Thou roam'st excursive; while, on minaret,
In solemn voice the Muezzin calls to prayer
His Moslem devotees. With thirsty beak,
The birds fly panting to the lilied verge
Of Moris lake, where swans unnumber'd oar
Their snowy way, amid the azure sheet,
To drink refreshment; while, at thy approach,
Through all their countless multitude of leaves,
The forests murmur, like an infant pleased
Beneath a sire's caress; and nightingales
Sing to thee, through the lapses of the night.

Unsocial Power! the realms of Solitude
Thou lovest, and where desolation spreads
Her far outstretching pinions; hoary weeds,
Like tresses hanging from the pillar'd pride
Of Balbec, thou dost wave with rustling sound,

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