And Jenny, less religious, on her neck
Displays a napkin of enormous check;
And Jock his waistcoat locks secure away,
Preserved to figure on some future day.

But six months soon revolve, and Mungo then,
Unwelcome visitor, returns again;

Nell pays her Bible, still the print is clear,
And smooth the cover, though the book be dear.
Jock grudges much his waistcoat, soil'd and done,
His penny
"fee" was far too hardly won
To lay it out on such unthrifty trash.
Obdurate Mungo pockets still the cash.
But Jenny's napkin was unsound, and fell
In rotten flaws, as all the house could tell,
It did not wear a fortnight, till the piece
Was fit wi' downright holes " to pickle geese."
She would not-could not-was not bound to pay,
So let him take with her what steps he may.

Now Mungo was endowed with "worldly wisdom,"
Nor for a napkin's price would risk his custom;
So on a plan he straightway set his brain,
And took his leave, most terribly in pain."
A fortnight afterwards a rumour passed,

That Packman Mungo now had breathed his last-
He died on Sunday. Jenny smiled to hear,
Nor deem'd the dreadful day of reckoning near-
But up the "Brae," there sped a stranger lad-
'Twas Mungo's kinsman, Heir of all he had,
And Mungo's books were open,-as it stood,
He heir'd his uncle's "Dues,"-to make them good
Was what he was determined-she must pay,
Or he would force her very "Kist" away.

Here Jenny stared, and stormed, and flounced about,
He was a vile Impostor, he must out-

The debt was paid-and though it were not, he
One penny of the payment should not see.-
"But God shall be my safety-what is this!
"My uncle's spirit left the realms of bliss!

Yet we cannot recollect, without feelings, which have in them something exceedingly pleasing and decidedly religious, those sunny Sabbath afternoons, which in our earlier life we have spent, seated on the green grass-turf, under the musical voice of "Macgill," the clear and discriminating eloquence of " Keyden," or the sonorous and manly exhortations of "Yorston ;" whilst the stream danced by in purity-the sheep eyed us down from their hill-side the clouds floated over us in peaceful serenity—and a vast amphitheatre of attentive and devotional countenances, gave altogether an impression of sublimity, which the heart of man could never catch under any arrangement of stone and lime. Were the question put to us, "Which of our early impressions we would be most unwilling to relinquish ?" our reference would probably be, to that made by a vast multitude of worshippers assembled in a deep and hollow recess, such as we have alluded to, pouring forth the full, and solemn, and irresistible swing of the Martyrs," into these beautiful and appropriate lines:

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,

"From whence doth come mine aid;

"My safety cometh from the Lord,

"Who heaven and earth hath made," &c.-Ps. 121.

* "To pickle geese," i. e. in Scotch idiom, so full of holes, that geese may pick up grain through it.

"And there it comes-the very pack he bore—
"The very staff—the very coat he wore—
"It comes, I guess, to claim a rightful' due'-
"It comes, I nothing doubt, to speak with you,
"So I'll retire."-" Oh, God, in mercy stay!
"Here, take the "Crown,"-'tis just-away, away!
"I cannot stand it," then she fainted quite,
And then departed" Visitor” and “ Sprite.”

*

Our hero once, amidst a drunken splore,
And as he " Gill'd it on" from door to door,
Was heard to reason thus-" The devil's in't,
"This populous city-this immense Penpont,'
"Three days did Jonah travel, only three,
"Through all the streets and lanes of Nineveh ;
"To me a task more vast than his is given,
"Penpont' already has exhausted' seven,
"And yet there still remains a deal to do-
"A month, I fear, will scarcely bring me through."

But Mungo sicken'd sadly at the last-
For Death had grasp'd his fever'd victim fast,—
No feint was this to clear a maiden score,
The Doctor left him, he could do no more.

The Priest was summon'd, douce and holy man,
Who straight to shrieve poor Mungo's soul began.—
"You have offended, doubtless, many a time,

"Your conscience, Mungo, must be black with crime,—
"E'en now you feel the consequence of sin,
"For all your sufferings are the fruits of gin-
"Your taste you must adjust to holier fare-
"Nor gin nor ought that pampers sense is there."
"For why?" says Mungo, roused to hear the reason.
"For why! Because they're wholly out of season,
"None there to taste such carnal fare are able."

66

They might," says Mungo, "place them on the table-
"But how are matters order'd in the sky?"

They sing his mercy, who resides on high."
"And then again ?"" His name they utter ever,
"And to proclaim his praises cease shall never.”
"It may be so!" replies the sinful man,

"I should not like so uniform a plan.”

"Your sins have seared your conscience-you are dying!
"An undone creature in your errors lying!

66 Repent of all your tricks, your trading lies,
“All these are register'd above the skies,
"And you must reckon in the judgment-day,
"For all your impositions dearly pay.”-
"All this is most unlikely-ay depen'
"On large allowances for trading men!"

Thus answered Mungo, turn'd aside his head

Writhed and convulsed-was number'd with the dead.

So hard the heart which worldly motive rules,

So paid the "Sinner" whom his wisdom fools!

"Penpont," a small village near the confluence of the Scar, and the Nith, in Dumfries-shire.

SUTOR JOHN.

OLD Sutor Fergusson, thou'rt welcome here
To all thy Friends, and Customers most dear
The first esteem thee for thy nobler parts,
The latter know thee by thy sutor arts;
But both unite to claim for thee the bay,
From all the prosing shoe-craft of thy day.

I see thee throned amidst thy various tools,-
Lasts, tacks, and pincers, customers and fools.
The neighbouring villager from labour free,
The Club-foot pedagogue, brimful of glee;
The scholar-boy, with greekish coloured face,
The noisy brethren of the carter race,
The farmer garrulous of harvest bad,
The ragged cottager, and servant lad,
I hear thy voice amidst this motley band;
Attention, praise, astonishment, command—
Whilst loud acclaim, for triumph justly due,
Breaks long and hearty from the listening crew.

With children mix'd, from task and labour free,
Thy apron'd figure in their games I see,
Goliah-like, amidst the boyish throng,

With giant "shinty" drive the ball along;
Or, deeply versant in each well known law,
Sustain the "dumps,” and knuckle down at“ taw."

On summer eve, the manly "Quoit" to throw,
I see thee full of buoyant spirit, go

The ground, the "Tee," the distance, all adjust,
Then down the "feather" goes, as go it must,-
Whilst edge-way, on its flight thy "Quoit" descends,
And takes the winning shot, whoe'er contends.
The fidging Prentices, their elbows claw,
And speak their triumph in a loud guffăā.

But who thy curling prowess aims to tell,
A fuller tone, a deeper note must swell,
Must dare to paint thy "besom" brandish'd high,
And all the silent censure of thine eye,
Whilst a rash, reckless "Lead" is seen to go
And spend its useless force amidst the snow;
That kindling rage, and censure speaking roar,
When nerveless caution hung behind the " score ;"
Must mark thy form like troubled ocean toss'd,
When all the game, by one vile "miss" was lost;
And next pourtray the joy that shook thy frame,
When conduct, fortune, skill, secured the game.

Who has not known thee in thy evening hour
With beef and greens, and punch-bowl in thy power,
To jolly madness seen thy spirits rise,
With all the victor sparkling in thine eyes;
Around thee wave the flashing blade of wit,
And laugh, and cause to laugh at every hit,
Each happy jest, and smart retort thy own;
Who hast not known thee thus-has never known.

But whilst the muse thy varied worth essays, And dips her pen, delighted, to thy praise

Thy fate is doom'd—the slowly passing bier
Demands the parting tribute of a tear;
Thy requiem next with sorrowing heart I sing,
And o'er thy crumbling dust, this "Vale" fling.

"Farewell, thou friend of every joyous mood,
"Though witty, wise, though social hearted, good.
"The last of all the race which erst I saw,
"Give tone to village life, to fools give law;
"Thy games are o'er, each controversy past,
"And all thy many doubts resolved at last;
"In 'sweet Dalgarno'* crumble into dust,
"Till God to better life awake the just.
"Around thee sleeps a covenanted band,
"The bulwark once of a misgovern'd land.

"The Gibson' and the 'Harkness' ne'er thee rest-
"Nor fear the Traitor,' nor abhor the Test.
"From forms, from surplice, and from Curate free,
"And all undreading now, of prelacy

"There rest thee soundly, sure to wake anon,

Thought Curates' sleep around thee, Sutor John.'”

ADAM HARKNESS.

OLD Adam Harkness stoops beneath the load,
Yet braves the weight of ninety years and odd---
His are the habits of a former day-

A bonnet blue, a coat of Parson gray;
Opinions, too, he owns of kindred hue-
He loves the old, but deprecates the new-
As rock in ocean fix'd, he serves to show
How swift the tides of passing manners flow.

"Dalgarno," a lonely, but most romantic burial-ground, by the side of the river Nith, in Closeburn. Dalgarno is mentioned by Burns,

"He went to the tryst at Dalgarno,"

and was once a separate parish. It has long been united with Closeburn, and many of the "old Stock," as they are termed, of that parish, still continue to bury in this ground.

+ The detestation in which the Curates were held during the eight-and-twenty years persecution, is well known. It was the firm belief of the populace, that the last Curate of Closeburn was prayed into eternity by the zealous covenanting piety of one " Peter Stranger," who, by a curious coincidence, was buried, in Dalgarno, at the feet of the old Curate, whose "exit" he had so religiously accelerated. An epitaph was written upon the occasion, of which the three following verses are all which the author of these Sketches can now recover

1.

Here's Peter Stranger, strangely placed,

"Just at the old Curate's feet

"In those who could him so disgrace,
""Twas strangely indiscreet.

2.

*For Curates and their Underlings,
"He held as mortal foes

"Nor did he fail to clip their wings,
"Whene'er occasion rose.

"But stay-I quite mistake the case—
"Most fitly here he lies,

"Just ready to renew the chase

"Whene'er the Two shall rise!!"

The mountains are his home, their cairns his pride-
For shepherd born, he loves the mountain side.
And many a sun has set, and morning smil'd,
On him, the shepherd boy, and mountain child;
His manhood, as his youth, hath pass'd away,
And still he seeks the misty mountain gray.

It is indeed a comely sight to see
This shepherd sage beneath his garden tree-
To hear This Register" his feats renew,
Were pleasure more inviting than the view!

And he can speak of caverns, where, of old,
The Covenanter kept his secret hold→
Or stone deep-crusted with the pious blood
Of him, against "conformity" who stood.-
The wind and torrents sweep it—still remain,
In spite of wind and flood, the witness-stain-
His grandsire hounded from his native home,
Compelled-outlaw'd-and felon-like, to roam,
From wife and children had been forced to flee,
And end his sufferings at the Gallow-lee.*

Old Adam is a man of sober mind,
Contented, cheerful, single-hearted, kind.
None were more loyal-more approved than he,
When faction braved the throne, in ninety-three-
'Twas then he spoke, of rights so dearly bought-
Of British rights, for which his fathers fought.
'Twas then he put his influence abroad,

To serve his king, his country, and his God.

'Twas then! And Heaven permitting, would be still-
The means alone are wanting, not the will;

Yet, I have watched the gleaming of his eye,
Like lightning flashing o'er a wintry sky-

What time his thoughts to " Former years" return'd,
And all his soul with indignation burn'd.

"Sad time, indeed-Oh, most detested time!
"When vice was fealty, and religion crime;
"When Counsellors were Traitors to the state;
"A Chancellor's authority was fate,

"And Scotland felt the grasp o'er moor and dale,
"Of cruel, beastly, turn-coat Lauderdale.
"When Griersont-stept abroad in human gore,
"The peaceful Peasant butcher'd at his door-

This is "o'er true a tale." Vide "The joint testimony of Thomas Harkness, in Locherbane; Andrew Clerk, in Leadhills, in Crawfurd parish; and Samuel M'Ewen, in Glencairn parish, who were sentenced and suffered at the Gallow-lee, near Edinburgh, August 15, 1684."-Cloud of Witnesses.

+ "Grierson of Lag." His feet, according to the popular belief, founded upon an indelible impression made by his cruelty, caused water to boil during his last illness; and after his death, two of Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick's best horses lost their lives in dragging his sinful carcase to the burial ground. We remember having often met with, in early life, hawked about in baskets, a little pamphlet entitled "Lag's Elegy," containing a lamentation of the Devil, over the death of his devoted servant.