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And though too fond of cutting throats,
Yet still he never meant ill.
And now the seven-and-eighty wits,*
To all our satisfactions,

Have shewn it takes no brains to print
A volume of transactions.

Shall I go on ?—

NORTH.

No-no-let the turnip tops rot in quiet. [Sings.]

The Doncaster Mayor, he sits in his chair-
His mills they merrily go-

His nose it doth shine with Oporto wine,
And the gout it is in his great toe.

And so it is in mine too. Oh! oh! O dear! what a cough I have! heigh, heigh, heigh!-Come now, Tickler, one stave from your old mouse-trap, to conclude the ante-cœnal part of our symposium, for I hear the dishes rattling below.

TICKLER sings, (a-la Matthews.)

Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window—
Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump;

He begg❜d for admittance-she answered him no→→
Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump.

No, no, Roger, no-as you came ye my go-
Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump.

O what is the reason, dear Dolly, he cried-
Humpaty, humpaty, hump-

That thus I am cast off, and unkindly denied?-
Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump-

Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here-
Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump→

Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir?
Numpaty, numpaty, nump-

Wi' a disconsolate look, his sad farewell he took—

Frumpaty, frumpaty, frump

And all in despair jump'd into a brook-
Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump-

His courage did cool in a filthy green pool-
Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump-

So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more-
Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump

He did speedily find one more fat and more kind—
Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump-
But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid-
Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.

Enter Ambrose with his tail on: (Left eating.)

The number of phrenologists in the club in Edinburgh.

Printed by James Ballantyne and Company, Edinburgh.

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. LXXXVII.

APRIL, 1824.

VOL. XV.

PUNISHMENTS IN THE ARMY,

NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ. No. XIV.

LETTERS (POSTHUMOUS) OF CHARLES EDWARDS, ESQ. No. II.

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BALLANTYNE'S NOVELIST'S LIBRARY,

THE SECOND VOLUME OF ROSE'S ARIOSTO,

368

391

399

406

418

424

MATTHEWS IN AMERICA,

LUTHER'S BRIDAL,

429

BANDANA ON EMIGRATION. LETTER FIRST,

A RUNNING COMMENTARY ON THE RITTER BANN. A BALLAD.

BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ.

KIDDYWINKLE HISTORY. No. I.

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS OF LITERARY MEN AND SATESMEN.
BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDor, Esq.

ON CHURCHYARDS. Chapter I.

Chapter II.

POMPEII,

LAMENT FOR INEZ,

THE LATE MISS SOPHIA LEE,

WORKS PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION,

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475

476

477

MONTHLY LIST OF NEW PUBLICATIONS,

479

MONTHLY REGISTER.

APPOINTMENTS, PROMOTIONS, &c.

487

491

BIRTHS, MARriages, and Deaths,

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, No. 17, PRINCE'S STREET, EDINBURGH;
AND T. CADELL, STRAND, LONDON;

To whom Communications (post paid) may be addressed.

SOLD ALSO BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS OF THE UNITED KINGDOM.

JAMES BALLANTYNE & CO, PRINTERS, EDINBURgh.

Erratum.-In some copies, page 435, line 13 of first column, for Waters', read Horton's.

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ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ.

[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,

PHOC. ap. Ath.

An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days ;

Meaning, ""TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINEBIBBING PEOPLE,

"NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE; "BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPle."

An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis

And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]

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SCENE I-Sky-Blue Parlour.

MR NORTH, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, AND MR AMBROSE.

NORTH.

Just so-just so, Mr Ambrose. No man sets a cushion with more gentle dexterity. As my heel sinks into the velvet, my toe forgets to twinge. Now, my dear St Ambrosio, for L'eau medicinal! (Mr Ambrose communicates a nut66 twashell of Glenlivet, and exit.) Now, my dear Shepherd, let us have a handed crack."

THE SHEPHERD.

What's the gout like, Mr North, sir? Is't like the stang o' a skep-bee? or a toothacky stoun? or a gumboil, when you touch't wi' het parritch? or a whitlow on ane's nose, thrab thrabbing a' the night through? or is't liker, in its ain way, till what ane drees after thretty miles o' a hard-trotting, barebacked beast, wi' thin breeks on ane's hurdies?

NORTH.

Gentle Shepherd, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

THE SHEPHERD.

Is'e warrant now, sir, that your big tae's as red as a rose in June.

VOL. XV.

зв

*

NORTH.

There spoke the poet-the author of the Queen's Wake. Mr Hogg, I am happy to know that you are about to give us a new poem, Queen Hynde. Is it very fine?

THE SHEPHERD.

Faith, I'm thinking it's no muckle amiss. I've had great pleasure aye in the writing o't. The words came out, helter skelter, ane after the other, head to doup, like bees frae a hive on the first glimpse o' a sunny summer morn.

NORTH.

Again! Why, that is poetry, Mr Hogg.

THE SHEPHERD.

Fie shame! That's just what Mr Jaffray said to Coleridge, when walking in the wud wi' him at Keswick-And yet what does he do a towmont or twa after, but abuse him and his genius baith, like ony tinkler, in the Enbro' Review. I canna say, Mr North, that I hate flattery, but, oh man! I fear't, and at the very time I swallow't, I keep an e'e on the tyke that administers the cordial.

NORTH.

Queen Hynde will do, James. Tales, tales, tales, eternal prose tales-out with a poem, James.-Your brose tales are but

THE SHEPHERD.

What kind o' a pronounciation is that, man?

NORTH.

I seldom write verses myself, now-a-days, James, but as I have not bothered you much lately by spouting MSS., as I used to do long ago, pray, be so kind as to listen to me for a few stanzas.

1.

HAIL, glorious dawning! hail, auspicious morn!
APRIL THE FIRST! grand festival, all hail!
My soaring Muse on goose-quill pinion born,
From that wide limbo, sung in Milton's tale,
Hastens to pay thee love and reverence due,
For thou to me a day most sacred art;
And I shall call around a jovial crew,

Who love and worship thee with single heart.
Come, crown'd in foolscap, rolling forth this lay,

Hail, mighty mother, hail !—hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!

2.

Which of you first shall press to shew your love

To vail your bonnet to your patron saint?

I see you hasten from the earth above,

And sea below to pay your service quaint.

While black and grey in every livery deck'd

The stay-laced dandy, and the Belcher'd blood,

The grave divine of many a jangling sect

Lawyers and doctors, and the critic brood,

All singing out in concert, grave or gay,

Hail, mighty mother, hail !—hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!

3.

March in the foremost rank-'tis yours by right

March, grenadiers of folly-march, my Whigs

Hoist the old tatter'd standard to the light,

Grunting in chorus like Will Cobbett's pigs.
George Tierny holds it with unsteady paw,
Looking right hungry on the golden hill

Of Place and Power, from which his ravening maw
Hopes vainly for vittal its chinks to fill.

Dupe to himself he growls, but loud must say,

Hail, mighty mother, hail !-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!

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