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THEIR HEALTH IN FOUR BUMPERS.

55

North. With all my heart.

Shepherd. And sowl.

Buller. And mind. Stap-"I wunna drink't."
Shepherd. That's real like me-

-for an Englisher.

Tickler. Craziness is catching.

North. Well said, Son of Isis.
Buller. Tom Cringle.

Omnes. Ay, ay, sir-Ay, ay, sir-Ay, ay, sir.

North. Instead of the rule seniores priores-to prove our equal regard-let us adopt an arithmetical order-and drink them in Round Robin.

[Four (that is, sixteen) bumper tumblers (not of the higher ranks, but the middle orders) are emptied arithmetically, with all the honours, to the healths of Captains Cringle, Glascock, Hall, and Marryat. For a season there is silence on the leads, and you hear the thrush-near his second or third brood—at his evening song.

Shepherd. Fowre tummlers, taken in instant sequence, o' strang drink, by each o' fowre men-a' fowre nae farder back than yestreen sworn-in members o' the left-haun branch o' the Temperance Society! I howp siccan a decided exception, while it is pruvin, mayna explode, the general rule. The general rule wi' us fowre when we forgather, is to drink naething but milk and water—the general exception to drink naething but speerits o' wine,-that was a lapsus lingy—speerits and wine. It's a pleasant sicht to see a good general rule reconciled wi' a good general exception; and it's my earnest desire to see a' the haill warld shakin hauns.

North. Peter, place my pillows.

[PETER does so. Shepherd. There's ane geyan weel shued up.1 Tickler. St Peter? I'm Pope. Kiss my toe, James. Shepherd. Drink aye maks him clean daft.

Buller. 'Tis merry in the hall, when beards wag all. Then all took a smack-a smack, at the old black-jack-to the sound of the bugle-horn-to the sound of the bugle-horn. Such airs I hate, like a pig in a gate-give me the good old strain-and nought is heard on every side but signoras and signors-like a pig in a gate, to the sound of the bugle-horn. Shepherd. Drink maks him musical-yet he seems to remember the words better nor the tune. North! nae snorin

1 Shued up-sewed up.

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Tickler! do you hear? nae snorin Buller, pu' baith their noses.

Fa'en

alloo'd on the leeds. ower too! Noo, I ca' that a tolerable nawsal treeo. It's really weel snored. Tickler! you're no keepin time. Kit, you're gettin out o' tune. Buller, nae fawsetto. Come here, Peter, I wush to speak to you. (PETER goes to the SHEPHERD.) Isna Mr North gettin rather short in the temper? Haena ye observed, too, a fa'in aff o' some o' his faculties-sic as memory-and, I fear, judgment? And what's this I hear o' him? (whispering PETER.) I do indeed devoutly trust it 'ill no get wun'! (PETER puts his finger to his nose, and looking towards NORTH, winks the SHEPHERD to be mum.) Ye needna clap your finger on your nose, and wunk, and screw your mooth in that gate, for he's in a safe snorin sleep.

Peter (indignantly). Mr Hogg, I trust I shall never be so far left to myself as to act in any manner unbecoming my love, gratitude, and veneration for the best and noblest of men and masters.

Shepherd. You did put your forefinger to your nose-you did wunk—ye did screw your mooth-ye did gesticulate that ye suspeckit his sleep wasna as real's his snore—and ye did nod yes when I asked you wi' a whusper in your lug if it was true that he had taken to tipplin by himsel in the forenoons?

North (starting up). Ye back-biting hog in armour-but I will break your bones-Peter, the crutch!

Shepherd. The crutch is safe under lock and key in its ain case-and the key's in ma pocket-for you're no in a condition to be trusted wi' the crutch. As for back-biting, what I said I said afore your face-and if you was pretendin to be asleep, let what you overheard be a lesson till you never to act so meanly again, for be assured, accordin to the auld apothegm, listeners never hear ony gude o' theirsels. Do they, Buller? Buller. Seldom.

Shepherd. Do they ever, Tickler?

Tickler. Never.

Shepherd. Then I propose that we all get sober again. Peter-THE ANTIDOTE! It's time we a' took it-for I've seen the leeds mair stationary-half-an-hour back, I was lookin eastward, but I'm sair mistaen if ma face be na noo due wast.

North. Yes-Peter.

[PETER administers the Antidote.

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Shepherd. Wasna that a blessed discovery, Mr Buller! Ae glass o' THE ANTIDOTE taken in time no only remedies the past, but insures the future-we may each o' us toss aff ither fowre bumper tummlers with the same impunity as we despatched their predecessors and already what a difference in the steadiness o' the leeds!

Buller. Hermes' Molly!

Tickler. The Great Elixir !

North. O sweet oblivious ANTIDOTE indeed-for out of the grave of memory in bright resurrection rises Hope-and on the wings of Imagination the rekindled Senses seem to hold command over earth and heaven!

Shepherd.. O coofs-coofs-coofs ! wha abuse the winebibbers o' the Noctes.

air.

Buller. Coofs indeed!

Shepherd. Never, Mr Buller, shall they breathe empyrean

Buller. Never.

Shepherd. For them never shall celestial dews distil from evening's roseate cloud

Buller. Never.

Shepherd. Nor setting suns their fancy ever fill with visions born o' golden licht-when earth, sea, cloud, and sky, are a' interfused wi' ae speerit-and that speerit, sae beautifully hushed in high repose, tells o' something within us that is divine, and therefore that will leeve for ever! Look! look! Buller. Such a sunset!

Shepherd. Let nae man daur to word it. It's daurin aneuch even to look at it. For oh! ma freens! arena thae the gates o' glory-wide open for departed speerits-that they may sail in on wings intil the heart o' eternal life! Let that sicht no be lost on us.

North. It is melting away.

1 "Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad
And see to what fair countries ye are bound!

And if some Traveller, weary of his road,

Hath slept since noontide on the grassy ground,
Ye Genii! to his covert speed,

And wake him with such gentle heed

As may attune his soul to meet the dower

Bestowed on this transcendent hour!"

WORDSWORTH's Evening Ode.

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Shepherd. Changed-gane! Anither sun has set-surely a solemn thocht, sirs-yet, come, let's be cheerfu'-Mr North, let me see a smile on your face, man-for, my dear sir, I canna thole noo bein' lang melancholy at ae time-for every year sic times are growin mair frequent-and I howp the bonny Leddy Moon 'ill no be lang o' risin, nor do I care whether or no she brings wi' her ane, nane, or ten thousan' stars. comes the caffee.

I

(Enter AMBROSE, with tea and coffee silver-service.) Ambrose. Tea or coffee, sir?

Shepherd. Chaclat. Help the rest. Mr North ?

North. Sir?

Here

Shepherd. Is that America, on the other side of the Firth? North. Commonly called the Kingdom of Fife.

Shepherd. Noo that steam's brocht to perfection, aiblins may mak a voyage there before I dee. Can you assure me the natives are no cannibals ?

North. They are cannibals, James, and will devour you— with kindness; for to be hospitable, free, affectionate, and friendly, is to be Fifeish.

Shepherd. I see through the blue haze toons and villages alang the shores, the kintra seems cultivated, but no cleared— for yon maun be the wudds o' bonny Aberdour, atween whilk and the shore o' Scotland sleep the banes o' Sir Patrick Spens We can write no sic ballant noo-a-days as, "The king sat in Dunfermline tower,

and a' his peers.

Drinking the blood-red wine."

The simplest pawthos, sir, sinks deepest in the heart-and lies there far down aneath the fleetin storms o' life-just as that wreck itsel is lyin noo, bits o' weed, and airn, and banes, lodged immovably amang other ruefu' matter at the bottom o' the restless sea.

Buller. Exquisite !

Shepherd. Eh! what said ye, sir? did ye apply that epithet to my sentiment, or to your sherry?

Buller. To both. United, "they sank like music in my heart." Shepherd. Here's to you, Mr Buller. Did ever I ask, sir, if you're ony relation to the Bullers o' Buchan ?1

1 On the east coast of Scotland, a few miles south of Peterhead, are the Bullers of Buchan, a nearly round basin about thirty yards wide, formed in à

THE SHEPHERD IN LONDON.

Buller. Cousins.

59

Shepherd. I thocht sae, sir, frae the sound o' your vice. You're a fine bauld dashin family, and fling the cares o' the warld aff frae your sides like rocks.

Buller. Scotland seems to me, if possible, improved since my last visit-even

"Stately Edinborough, throned on crags,"

more magnificently wears her diadem.

Shepherd. Embro' as a town, takin't by itsel, 's no muckle amiss, but I canna help considerin't but a clachan' sin' my visit to Lunnon. Mercy on us, what a roar o' life! Ane would think the haill habitable yerth had spewed its haill population intil that whirlpool! or that that whirlpool had sookt it a' in— mair like a Maelstrom than a Metropolis!

North. There's poetry for you!

Buller. It is.

Shepherd. Whales and mennows a' are yonner, sir, dwinnled doun or equaleezed intil the same size by the motion o' millions, and a' sense o' individuality lost. The verra first morning I walked out o' the hotel I clean forgot I was James Hogg.

Buller. Yet, a few mornings after, Mr Hogg, allow me to say, that the object most thought of there was the Ettrick Shepherd.

Shepherd. Na-no on the streets. Folk keepit shoalin past me-me in ae current o' flesh, and them in anither-without a single ee ever seemin to see me—a' een lookin straucht forrita' faces in full front,- -sae that I couldna help askin mysel, Will a' this break up-is it a' but the maist wonderfu' o' dreams?

Buller. But in the Park.

Shepherd. Ay! that was a different story-I cam to my seven senses on Sunday in the Park-and I had need o' them a'-for gif I glowered, they glowered-and wherever I went, I couldna but see that I was the centre

Tickler. "The cynosure of neighbouring eyes."

hollow rock which projects into the sea, towards which there is an arch by which the waves enter. It is open also at the top, round which there is a narrow path about thirty yards from the water: when the sea is high in a storm, this scene is exceedingly grand."-Penny Cyclopedia.

1 Clachan-a small village.

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