THE RECENT ARCHITECTURAL EMBELLISHMENTS OF GLASGOW.-No. I.

[WE have received a host of communications from angry Correspondents, intended for that department of the industry our title promises, which is to give Criticisms on the recent Architectural Embellishments of this City. The greater part of them dwell with asperity upon the very necessary and laudable improvement -as we think it really deserves to be called-effected in Ingram and Canon Streets, by cutting off a projecting portion of St. David's Churchyard, and carried on, we are assured, with every respect and delicacy to the mortal remains there deposited, as well as to the feelings of the friends of the deceased. Had they asked why even Rickman was employed, when our own city possesses such an architect as Hamilton, we should have wondered less at their wonder.-Two complaining articles, of very different styles, we insert.]

The Remonstrance of a late Member of the Incorporation of Taylors. Addressed to the Statute Labour Trustees.

ALTHOUGH the measure may seem short,

And shorter still this line,

My suit and sewings not in sport,
For a subject grave is mine;

And, though I'm dead, there's no reason for❜t
That my ghosts should "give no sign."

Though "Crypt " uncrippled still we be-
Than mine there are more bones-

And 'tis our turn to mutiny

Against the "stocks and stones

That way-lay our last property,

And "push us from our thrones."

Remember Shakspeare's Epitaph,

Ye Cobbetts of our Pain!

You would not turn, with scornful laugh,

A beggar out in rain,

But toss your sires about like chaff

Thrown to the street again!

Although 'tis true we're changed to dust,
To mud you needn't hurl us.—
But each wheelbarrow that passes must-
If you spread that dust o'er purlieus:
Our cause is not a cause-way Trust,—
Yet, trust us, we're not querulous!

O Captain H! think how they
Who march o'er graves to fame,
Get but a North-West dangerous way—
-Ram's Horns yield small acclaim;
Cannon and Canon breaches may-
Not Canon-Street.-For shame!

One of my legs has been thrown near
Miss Withers' virgin charms;
Another, with the Widow Queer
Is locked in too close terms
Within a neighbour Crypt-and here,
Like a fight, are "odds of arms!"
Now this, beneath the church's nose-
Beside the church's quiet-

Is very bad.

O where be those

Who threaten at a riot

When doctors left one corpse in clothes
Without those things to fye at!

Give back-give back the ancient lair, *
In these days of half knowledge!
The plan is odd that would'nt spare
That on the way to College!

Our "tack" to cancel, even for " Stair," +

Is little less than spoliage.

A corner slice you cut-'twas bad;

But now-one vast abuse ;

You pave with graves a City Road,

Yet rail them out of use !

-What wonder then a ghost gets mad-
-Even that of

GILBERT GOOSE!

Where is my Father's Grave?

WHERE IS MY FATHER'S GRAVE?-
The grass was green that grew around-
'Twas watered by my tears,-
There was no mark upon the mound,
Save that which kneeling wears ;-
The stone that told his virtues' age-
That showed one honest name,
Where is it now? It was a page
Held not one word of shame ;-

Tablets have lied in holy nave

-This was above my Father's Grave!

* Lair-anglice Learning.

+ His “Institutes," or that flight of steps at the gateway.

WHERE IS MY FATHER'S GRAVE?-
I came from lands across the deep;
One thought, afar, was mine-
Again the tears of love to weep
O'er that heart-hallowed shrine:
I seek the spot at earliest dawn,
But find each symbol fled;

The creaking wains are o'er it drawn-
The city's thousands tread!

Hid, as rolls population's wave
'Bove't, is my Father's quiet Grave!

WHERE IS MY FATHER'S GRAVE?

What was the malison of heaven
On they who land-marks moved?

Here heart-goals from their place are riven-
Torn up the dust we loved!-
Where lay the head of wisdom'd age-

Where rested its fond heart;-
Stretch'd by the rude mechanic's guage,
These wall's foundations start:
Above his tomb a road they pave,-
Here-here! this was my Father's Grave!

WHERE IS MY FATHER'S GRAVE?

Nay, tell me not of arched roof,
With noisome clammy walls,

Where huddled bones, without one proof,
Rot in their sandstone stalls;
Reft from the spot where lowly laid
With reverential thought

I left them, ye have relics made

In which my heart owns nought:
To hallowed earth his dust I gave,
Ye have profaned a Father's Grave!

WHERE IS MY FATHER'S GRAVE?-
The Red Child of the West I left,
Though Savage him we name,
Doth never need, for ne'er so reft,

To speak these words of shame ;—
If strangers would profane the ground
The sacred trust it keeps,

They carry with them-where they're found
The Indian Father sleeps:

Farewell, loved land!-no home I'll have

Where none can show my Father's Grave!

66

HARRY MARTEN TO CHARLES HERON.

* The "Ladies' Sale"-or Sale of Ladies-continued on the Thursday after you left town, and if there were fewer works of art to admire than on the first day, there were more of nature-for the fair shopkeepers and their customers were better seen. I sent you a Times: had you been here I don't believe, in faith, that you could have told the friends you are visiting a word more about it than is there, unless you had mentioned Miss's repartee to a gent. who said it was her beauty made him buy-" O! then, what will you next purchase for the charity?" The writer is to get a pic-nic suit of embroidery from the ladies-contributors, and Professor Sandford a lecture in Latin on gallantry.- -Swan's Views, No. II. is the best thing I can send as an acknowledgment for your punctuality as to the turkeys, which are fat enough for even his Archiepiscopal Palace" in its best days, and will relish the whisky Storrie has sent me, that has made the voyage to Calcutta and back to mellow it! It is curious enough that in the same week his view of that relic of prelacy appeared, a new edition of that curious and important record of the lives of the HEROES who suffered martyrdom to resist and overthrow itHowie's "Scots Worthies"-was published in the same city! I have not had time to examine more than the Preface, which is written in Mr. M'Gavin's excellent masculine style.- -Cramer is in piano playing what Crayon is in English style. Kalkbrenner was the Hazlitt of his art-full of fire-and freaks. But Vaughan, Bellamy, and Knyvett are coming!-think of that!the finest glee singers since Elliot, King, and Evans' time-and Sinclair and Ducrow precede them. Seymour will make "Bonny Breast Knots" as fashionable as if Malthus had never been a foe to matrimony. He is really indefatigable, and has again put his best "FOOTE" forward for the holiday folks.—I cannot add another word, for I have an appointment to see the pretty Mary practise a new dance, with an alarming title, Lowe has just introduced-" the Chivonian Circle!" and the clock nearest me is of no use, as a sign-board, hung on its face, tells it is "Repairing," but doesn't say where-nor when it is to come back.-Yours, H. M.

A MATCH FOR TIME.

Time, long a widower, and somewhat hoary,
Ask'd 's counsel once-so runs the story-

Who, thinking that he could be easy spared

While trade was dull, sent him to be" Re-paired."-Jocko.

We have not a line of room to thank, let alone to gratify, our numerous Correspondents.-The very unexpected demand for our first and second Numbers obliges us to request that those who are desirous of possessing them will leave their orders with their Bookseller, that it may be ascertained whether it is worth while to re-set their types-a large impression of each having been already sold.

Printed by James Curll, 55, Bell-Street, and sold by all Booksellers.
PRICE THREEPENCE.

THE ANT.

No. IV. SATURDAY, 13th JANUARY, 1827.

Original.

DRYGATE STORIES.-No. I.

NEAR the south-east extremity of the Drygate stood the gateway of ancient Glasgow, known by the name of the Drygate Port; and still stands the venerable mansionhouse, once a prebendal residence attached to the cathedral, in a portion of which resides our venerable friend, Archibald M'Crony, a lineal descendant, by the mother's side, from the worthy M'Ure, the kind-hearted and simpleminded, yet graphic historian of his and our native city. He is, like his progenitor, garrulous and good-humoured, full of old traditions, vain of the glory and the grandeur of Glasgow, yet jealous of all innovations that take place in either its appearance or the manners of its citizens. A bachelor-worth fifty pounds a-year, when his rents are well paid-and never without a jocose crack, and a good pinch of snuff-it need not be doubted that his company is sought after. His stories are mostly all local, many of them personal. But that word is a bugbear in one of its applications. Here we mean, simply, that he is often the hero of his own narratives, a few of which he has promised to transcribe for "The Ant," and he has sent as a specimen—

THE LIGHT IN THE GARRET WINDOW.

A Tale of the Trongate.

MANY of the friends in whom I can find no other fault, have gone to live in the westermost westergate, where stood the holms and hills of the Laird of Blythswood when I was young. But they have not forgotten the Drygate, for sure am I it is the rather to see it again, than to call and invite even me, that they climb, as they call it, the now levelled Bell o' the Brae. And, the more for this kindly feeling to the haunts of their fathers' boyhood, I often spend the afternoon and evening in that new city now built on the heights above where once