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Fancy, written in the cant style,—the on a charity sermon, which had been recently preached,-we find this promise fulfilled to the letter, as follows,)

review of a corps of sharpshooters, with whose manoeuvres the writer finds great fault, and an elaborate criticism

AILIE MUSHAT'S CAIRN.

A Vision-like remembrance of a Vision.

The night was dark; not a star was view'd
Mid the dim, and cloudy solitude;

I listen'd to the watchman's cry,

And to the midnight breeze, that sung
Round the ruins of St Anthony,

With dismal, and unearthly tongue :

I scarcely felt the path I trode;

And I durst not linger to look behind,

For I knew that spirits were abroad,

And heard their shrieks on the passing wind;

When lo! a spectacle of dread and awe

With trembling knees, and stiffening hair I saw !

A grave-light spread its flames of blue,
Its flames of blue and lurid red,
And, in the midst, a hellish crew

Were seated round the stony bed
Of one, whom Murder robb'd of life!-
I saw the hand that held the knife,
It was her husband's hand, and yet
With the life-gore the blade was wet,
Dripping like a fiery sheath,

On the mossy cairn beneath!

The vision changed; and, on the stones,
With visage savage, fierce, and wild,
Above the grave that held her bones,
The ghost of Ailie Mushat smiled;

It was a sight of dread and fear

A chequered napkin bound her head,
Her throat was cut from ear to ear,

Her hands and breast were spotted red;
She strove to speak, but from the wound
Her breath came out with a broken sound!

I started! for she strove to rise,
And pierced me with her bloodshot eyes;
She strove to rise, but fast I drew

Upon the grass a circle round;
I said a prayer, and she withdrew

Slowly within the stony mound-
And trembling, and alone I stood,
In the depth of the midnight solitude.

Aug. 4.-Am glad to observe from the philosophical journals, the newspapers, and other authentic sources, that several of the barbarous tribes are paying attention to literature and the fine arts. The Japanese poem I have

seen pleases me extremely, though the subject can scarcely be said to be well adapted for poetry. My translation is not so bad. M. Titsingh's Latin paraphrase is also very good. The English is literal.

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HORE SINICE. No. II.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF YAHMASSEERO, COUNCILLOR OF STATE.

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Aug. 8.-Blue stockings are not to my taste, unless their attention be only paid to polite literature-the play that is just to come out, or the last new poem.

Last night's party, however, the most agreeable of the kind that I have met; if the young lady with the blue eyes, could have been contented, with only smiling and shewing us her fine teeth, and not disturbed herself about the alteration in the criminal laws, and the effects which the cornbill might have had. Rather too theatrical in the other young lady Miss to recite Coleridge's ode to the Departing Year, with such emphatic pith, and such vehemence of gesticulation. The MS. poems handed round insufferably bad. Elegies in the measure of “Õh, Miss Bailey,

unfortunate Miss Bailey," and Odes, in
which sound gave sense no opportu-
nity of coming forward in self defence.
Must learn the particulars of that
sweet, modest, and melancholy young
creature, who sate on the end of the
sopha, nearest the door. Am certain
that I caught her sighing several times.
Must be at the bottom; having been
teazing myself whether the unfortu-
nate passion, the theme of the stanzas
which she handed about, as her pic-
nic share of the literary banquet, can
be only an effusion of sentiment, or
whether they have originated in dread
reality. At all events, she may wait
long enough, till her verses
round to her again; as, in the heat
of conversation, I stowed them along
with my snuff-box into my waistcoat
pocket. They are not amiss.

STANZAS.

Oh mine be the shade, &c.

OH! mine be the shade where no eye may discover,
Where in silence and sorrow alone I may dwell;
Give scorn to the maid, who is false to her lover;
A tear unto her, who has loved but too well!
Alas for the heart, when affection forsaking

The vows, it hath pledged, and has cherish'd through years;
For no refuge remains to that lone heart but breaking,
The silence of grief, and the solace of tears!

Farewell the bright prospects that once could allure me
To think this poor earth was a promise of Heaven;

Since he, who once doated, no more can endure me,
Too much with the darkness of fate I have striven;
The flowers with their odours-the birds with their singing—
The beauties of earth, and the glories of sky,
Dear-sad recollections are constantly bringing-
And all that remains upon earth is to die!!

To die or to be married. It is a lottery indeed, but still "I have stout notions on the marrying score," to use the words of an eminent poet. Truly I am not a little taken with this sweet young creature; and perhaps, after all, this

Was not taught her by the dove, To die, and know no second love.

If I thought so, I do not know, but

come

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SKETCHES OF VILLAGE CHARACTER.

No. V.

"Proœmium."

EACH one that lives has an appropriate " want”-
Some scant of morals, some of grace are scant,
Some lack contentment in the midst of means,
And Misses lack a lover in their teens ;
The half-pay army-surgeons lack a fee,
And parsons now-a-days lack modesty;
Some lack, alas !—and these are authors too,
The frontal bumps at No. 32.

One writes a volume-minus" common sense;"
Another writes, because he lacks the pence;
The Poets now-e. g. there's I myself-
Who ne'er had written, but from lack of pelf.
But, then again, that all may balanced be,
Each one is saddled with "redundancy."

Some ladies shew too much of neck and shoulder-
And some are faced, in helmets, like a soldier-
Some sport too much of learning, love to shew
And figure in the "sum" of all they know ;
As others walk abroad in too much finery,
In tasselated blossoms, like a vinery-
We know a man whose sneezing is too much
For maiden ladies-the report is such.
Another owns an extra power of nose,

Which trumpets through their nerves whene'er it blows.
Our hero's "want," we must explicit be,

Was nothing, courteous friend, but "honesty ;"

But then to balance all," he took a glass,"

And this was Mungo's error in excess.

Thus much premised, proceed we with our tale,

Which, to delight our readers, cannot fail.

"MUNGO CLARK, THE SOUTH COUNTRY PACKMAN."

A Packman, Mungo, of no vulgar kind,

A staff before, a monstrous pack behind,

Bent o'er his rung, he crawls along the road,

And groans, and grunts, beneath his merchant load,
Snuffs up the wind, with teeth exposed and bare,
And looks the very image of despair-

Till gain'd at length the farmer's open door,
Where many a cur has fled his staff before,
On meal-ark lid he rests his coffin'd ware,

And by the evening “ingle” takes a chair—

And long the country clash-" How Lizy fled,

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Though thrice on Sabbath call'd, the bridal bed;

"How Tibby's Bell is off wi' Jenny's Rob,

"And Jeanie's Bet has gi'en the kirk a job;

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"How sold the Nowt last week, at Staigshaw-bank,'

"And how the drover perish'd in the ́ stank ;'

"How very dear the newest Bumbazeens,

"How scarce the Cassimeres, how rare the Jeans

"The Cottons, too, are up, the Waistcoat pieces
"Are selling off at most enormous prices;
"And e'en the Bible, curse upon the printer,
"Is dearer now than what it was in winter.'

This prelude past-and all the household crew
On tip-toe set, his summer stock to view,
His pack he slow uncords, for warping round,
Full many a leash of packing-cord is found-
Knot after knot, by tooth and nail untwisted,
(And some resolved with scissars, that resisted)
At length unfolded, come the "Treasures" forth,
Of newest fashion that have travell'd "North."
The spangled gown-piece, fancy-figured o'er,
The very pattern which the "Countess" wore,
The shawls all edging-corner'd red and blue,
A little rumpled, but-as good as new.

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The breeches-pieces" time might not destroy-
The strong, imperial, thickset corduroy.

The waistcoat-patterns, rarely striped and bright,
Unfold their gay temptation on the sight.

The farmer's jolly Daughter wipes her hands,
And bending o'er the packman's treasure stands,-
Fingering the stuffs with most provoking skill,
And from the proffer'd bargain turning still.-
"That gown-piece was so coarse,-'twas quite a fright;
Dirt-cheap, indeed, it was, as well it might;

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"This other remnant, which was eightpence dearer,
"Wad never suit.-This last was coming nearer
"The thing she wish'd-yet any one might know
"The piece' was damaged, for the price was low."
There is a Latin proverb, verbum sat,"

The hint hit Mungo's worldly wisdom pat;
So edging in the web beneath a pile
Of Sisterhood-he brings it with a wile
From out the further side, with knowing air,-
And," Fath, my lady,* this indeed is rare,
"I ne'er had such a remnant" in my pack,
"Nor ever bore a dearer on my back-
""Tis all, long time bespoke-nor did I mean
"To let this portion of my stock be seen;
"But since I am compell'd the piece to show,
"I may perhaps-perhaps may let it go."
"I never saw such muslin with mine eyes,"
The gull'd and half-transported dame replies.
"Now, fath, my lady, you need say no more;
"I'll just affix it to your father's score.

"You'll want a waistcoat, Jamie ?-there, select,
"And to the payment-never have respect.
"For six months after this, we'll not dispute;

""Tis time enough when next I come about."

"This gown-piece wants a sprig, and that a colour;
"This shawl is lovely, gin that ane had siller"-
"Now Fath, my lady, you may suit your taste,
"That very napkin is the very best

"Of all my present stock; this trade I drive,
"The rest I sold at six, 'tis your's at five."

Now Nell has bought a Bible bound in calf-
The hymns and psalms appended to each half;
The Summer Sacraments she knows are near,
For "Morton" she has pled, and "Durisdeer,"
And sair her master bother'd for the " Keir;"

* "Fath, my lady," was Mungo's way of addressing all individuals of the fair sex. + It is well known that the out or tent-preachings at the Presbyterian sacraments are now generally abolished; and it is, no doubt, upon the whole, better that they are so.

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