Enter THE STELLAR BAND-Messrs. Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Sagittarius, Aquarius, and Pisces, with Mesdames Virgo and Libra; led by Captain Stramash.

Captain. (singing)—

"Then away we'll a' be speeling, lads,

Till of heaven we reach the ceiling, lads;

O, we'll dance in the moon,

To some auld Scotch tune,

While the planets are round us reeling, lads!
"We'll hound the Dog at the Lion, lads,
An' follow the chace wi' Orion, lads;
And at night we'll regale

On the Scorpion's tail,

While the fishes for supper are fryin' lads!

"When wi' Venus we've danced a measure, lads,
O' the Bull and the Ram we'll make seizure, lads,
And, yokin' the twain

In Charlie's wain,

Come jogging away at our leisure, lads.

"'Twas glorious us mounting, lads,

The stars our companions counting, lads;
Now we're landed again,

Inspiration we'll drain

At mair than the Muses' fountain, lads!"

Stellar Gentlemen. We will, we will.

Stellar Ladies. We won't, we won't.

Saxon. Hey, Gemini! anything new?

Gemini. Nothing but a sonnet.

Virg. et Lib. To a bonnet?

*

Aquarius. Or on the visit of Miss Virgo and Mr. Pisces to the Sounding Aisle, referred to in the Starry Night, No. III., "in our next?"

Gemini. No, but

SONNET.

ON THE RECENT EPIDEMIC. (With Notes.)
AFTER fierce July's heats, September's rains
Were follow'd by a purg-at'ry of pains;
The man of business soon forsook his callin',
By rail and road to reach the Bridge of Allan;
For there alike the hod-man and the hatter
Are eased of pain with heated salt and water!
All hail! O Airthrey's health-inspiring brine!
While, ill at ease, the dark dyspeptics pine,
E'en florid fatness shrivels in its skin
At some vile torture in the realms within ;

Thy saline virtues, scouring ev'ry vein,

Give back the rampant energies the rein!
Ye laughing gods! to you this might be "nuts,"
But oh! ye little fishes! tranquillize the g―ts!

NOTES.

September rains. September, from septem (seven), and imber (a shower of rain). -A.M.

Purg-at'ry. See diagnosis of the epidemic.-M.D.

Callin'-Bridge of Allan. Highly original rythm.-B.M., Oxon.

Hatter, from hauteur (Fr.), pride, indicated by the cock of the hat. Hodman is taken by the poet for one of the humblest; Hatter, in virtue of its derivation, for one of the highest professions.-Ph. D.

Dark Dyspeptics. They this year, certainly, had the worst of it, from the tropical character of the season, inducing actually yellow fever in a modified form.-M.D. Gods-Little fishes-Guts. The fishes are naturally appealed to on the subject of guts, with more poetic grace than the immortals.-A.S.S.

Pisces. I admire the way in which you bring in there the "gods and little fishes." This is a first-rate sonnet, but not equal to "Loch1-v-n Castle." The notes are as good as those to poetry in general.

Sagittarius. What! Pisces, "are you the editor of the Renfrewshire Magazine?"

Pisces. Why, Mr. Archer, that is a secret: but, if I am not he, thank goodness he is neither a sumph nor a sneak.

Cancer. I beg next to be heard.

Leo. Cum notis, like Gemini ?

Cancer. Not at all! This is something in the ballad style.
Pisces. And crab-bed enough, we may rely.

"THE PIG IN THE POCK."

A MODERN STREET BALLAD.

AIR-" Kilmarnock Nightcaps."

I SING O' a thing that has happen'd in Killie,
To a sneak o' a chaffering, higgling Billie,
Who lately play'd off there a rum sort of joke,
And all by the sale of" the pig in the pock."

This Billie was skilfu', 'mang few or 'mang many,
At trying a dodge or at turning the penny;
But his last doit is turn'd noo, 'mang a' decent folk,
Since he's ta'en to the sale of—" the pig in the pock !"

This pig nor this pock were ne'er read of in volumes,
The H-l-d would not have it soil its "Free" columns,
But, lest such a sally had ended in smoke,
Our keen Billie printed-" the pig in the pock!"

The old days are fled now of "Leper the Tailor,"

Of "Paddy from Cork," and such wretched canaille, or
We never had seen such a spec on the stocks
As two hunder' eighty foul pigs in their pocks.

But, finding that vending the thing was a bother,
Our Billie resorts to some old hag or other,

With whom all the schoolboys of Killie might troke
For the sale of this infamous "pig in the pock !"

Some parent, detecting the scandalous purchase,
Untied all the winds not "to fight 'gainst the churches,"
But to batter and blast, in their furious shock,
The owner of this wretched "pig in the pock."

A circ'lar was issued, exposing the whole,
The Billie denied it on conscience and soul;
To a clergyman loudly and fiercely he spoke
Of this filthy, disgusting, old-pig in a pock.

Now the Council bell rang, and our Billie was call'd
To face his wroth betters, amaz'd and appall'd,
For an hour he stood out, but at length was awoke
To some sense of shame for-" the pig in the pock !”

Down, down on his knees goes the Billie, and cries-
I confess to a fault, and I'll tell no more lies;
'Twas only of business a bit of a stroke,

I was tempted, and issued-" the pig in the pock."

From the civil he pass'd 'fore the clerical powers,
Who handled the matter for two mortal hours,
Dread Law's grim approach then he heard in each knock,
And all for the sale of" the pig in the pock."

When, seizing his hat and contents of the till,
Distracted, our Billie rush'd forth from old Kil-
He could stand it no longer-Cora Linn's dewy smoke,
Nearly ended the tale of "the pig in the pock !"

Saxon. Confounded Scotch! What was it, then, this pig in a whatd'ye-call-it?

Pisces. Not to be mentioned to ears polite. The ballad is too good for the subject. Its moral, however, forms a rare exemplar of "vice its own punishment." For the sake of a paltry profit of a few pence, to see a person expose himself to run the gauntlet thus, is really, as Sam Slick says, a caution! Inquire in Killie.

Tremendous noise, and a shrill cry of "Who's afraid!"—occasioned by the downfal of the statue of "NOBODy affrighted -when the whole illusion vanishes.

NO. III.

POETRY.

BY MISS AIRD, AUTHORESS OF THE "HOME OF THE HEART."

MEMORIAL VERSES.

"What is affection's token-oft a trifle."
FOND memory loves and lingers o'er
The picture of an "absent friend,"
And sweet the sight our bosoms pour
O'er ties that time or distance rend;
And dear, though fragile, is the thing
We cherish as affection's token,
Where parted spirits meet and cling,
O'er heart-revealings unforgotten.
And thus, on this memorial leaf,

My heart would commune here with thine ;
Affection glow, through joy and grief,
Unruffled by the storms of time;
Together here, live o'er again,
The look unutterably tender,

And hope will soothe the parting pain,
In words we only can remember;
The hope, even of the perfect day,
That brighter ne'er the zenith shineth,
Till morning shadows flee away,

And break the light that ne'er declineth.

KILMARNOCK.

THE ARISTOCRACY OF LITERATURE, AND LITERARY CRITICISM.

(To the Editor of the Renfrewshire Magazine.)

THAT in a community assuming to itself the name of Commonwealth, there should have sprung up an aristocracy, unparalleled in its exclusiveness, might well be matter of surprise, did not all past history bear testimony to the fact, that there is inherent in human nature a thirst for power, and that when the individual cannot rule alone, he is willing to become one of a ruling faction. To a hereditary aristocracy much is conceded on account of long descent from illustrious ancestors; time has thrown an imaginary halo round the representative of an ancient and honourable name, which, provided he is worthy to wear, few, even in these democratic days, will fail to treat with becoming respect. There are other aristocracies whose pretensions we are more inclined to dispute; with them, however, (we mean the overgrown ones of wealth and fashion,) we have for the present nothing to do; their gilded idols and fluttering butterflies have, doubtlessly, conferred benefits upon society, for which it manifests its gratitude by humbly worshipping the one, and servilely imitating the other. But it is with a very different class we have to deal, the high caste! the aristocracy of literature! it surely has no title whatever to assume rank on account of ancestry, or wealth, or fashion, (though there is such a thing as fashionable writing). Genius, thank heaven! is above and independent of the laws of primogeniture and entail-it cannot be transmitted, like wealth or property, from father to son, but is derived immediately from the source and fountain of all honour; such being its tenure, we conceive it to be beneath the dignity of a body so holding, to wall itself round with the paltry partitions which the patricians of mere civil society erect, to prevent their being elbowed by the mobility. The individual member of the literary republic on whom the mantle of inspiration has fallen, may, like the great military captain of modern history, date the patent of his nobility from his first victory-yet, having risen, like all his predecessors, from the ranks, let him ever be ready to accord to the young aspirant to literary honours, the full degree of merit due to his exertions; and, looking down from the eminence he