The following occur in another rustic game, in which a brood of chickens is represented by some of the party, their dam by one, and a gled, or kite, by another :

The following are incantations, supposed to be by witches; and possess, we think, as much of the horrible as the celebrated ones in Macbeth:

We are not aware, that, in the whole body of Scottish poetry, there is to be found a finer specimen of the wailings of dark and settled despair, than the following song, which at least equals the very pathetic, but more modish one of Lady Bothwell's Lament.

But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift, and mourn,

And curse black Robin-a-Ree.

Then whudder awa, thou bitter-biting blast,

And sough through the scrunty tree,

And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast,
And ne'er let the sun me see ;

O! never melt awa, thou wreath o'
snaw,

That's sae kind in graving me;

But hide me ay frae the scorn and gaffaw
O' villains like Robin-a-Ree.

We can afford room only for one other effusion of the rustic muse; but which, though our author avers it to be ancient, we are ready to take our corporal oath is his own genuine composition :

Puddock reed is fu' o' een,

And every ee's a powhead;

But Nelly's twa beats them clean-
She is a charming powhead !

We have selected the following as the best of John's anecdotes, but have found it necessary to correct both his orthography and punctuation:-" A person once told the celebrated Billy Marshall, the tinkler, that whisky was a slow poison. It must be dev'lish slow, indeed,' quoth the gypsy chief, 'for I ha'e tooted it o'er in nogginfu's now for mair than a hunner year, and am to the fore yet, hale and feer.' He died when 120 years of age."

"Once as a priest was going to his church, on the Sabbath day, to hold forth, he espied Andrew Gemmel pondering deeply upon something that lay on the road, and stepping seriously round it. The clergyman came up, and seeing what the object was, said, Well, An'ro, what's this that seems to be puzzling you so? For my part, I see nothing but a horse-shoe on the road.' Dear me!' returned the gaberlunzie, with uplifted hands, 'what disna that lear do! I have gloured at that shoe now the best part o' half-an-hour, and de'il tak' me gif I could say whether it was a horseshoe or a mare-shoe." " This story, by the bye, is not Gallovidian, at least it has circulated in Lanarkshire from time immemorial.

We are tempted to give the half of another anecdote, (it concludes with what seems to be a piece of private scandal,) as a rich example of that dry and matter-of-fact irony for which our countrymen are distinguished._ “ Á man on horseback once came up with another rider, while going to a Dumfries rood-fair. Quoth the first, Whar' come ye frae, guid man, gin ane may speir?' E'en out o' the parish o' Co'end,' replied the other. I was thinkin' sae,' regained the first, for, like a' your parish fo'k, ye sit far back on the hin'erpart o' the beast.'

"

We have now extracted from John's book whatever is at all readable in it; and the enormous mass of rubbish that remains we consign to the oblivion which it merits. We have noticed the work, not for the purpose of directing the finger of Scorn towards its author, (who is dignified far beyond his merits by any notice whatever,) but because we consider the work as forming the apex of a sort of era in the literature of Scotland-an era distinguished by the appearance of a numberless host of the most impudent quacks and pretenders. It dates its commencement from the days of Burns, whose extraordinary success conjured up, with fearful rapidity, imitators in every quarter. And, what is peculiarly unfortunate, those upon whom his example has operated most powerfully, are the most singularly destitute of poetical talent. Had they felt the beauties of Burns's poetry, they must also have felt a consciousness of their own infinite inferiority; but the truth is, that all they perceived about his writings was, that they were in rhyme, and in the Scottish dialect; and the inference was, that to rhyme in their mother tongue was all that was necessary to constitute them poets. We need not dwell upon the tempting facilities which the unfixedness and lubricity of the language present to such candidates for the wreath of Apollo. But this was not all ;-it was not enough that every village and ale-house should have its poet. The faults of a great man most impose upon the understandings of little men, and are most aptly imitated by them. Burns had his faults, both as a man and a poet; though the former of these will

be "burnt and purged away," from the recollection of posterity, by the intense admiration felt for his genius. As a man, he unquestionably had a proclivity to sensual pleasures. In his poetry there is much gratuitous coarseness; and the independence which he displays, though certainly real and sincere, has much the air of dogged and invidious sullenness. His epigrams, too, are far beneath par. We are not aware that any of his biographers have stated, what we know to be a fact, that he once conceived a passion for the writings of Martial, and hence was led into occasional attempts at imitation. But Burns had not the faculty of wit in any perfection; his humour was rich and broad beyond comparison; he could flash withering and deadly scorn upon meanness, and lash hypocrisy into mortal agonies with the thongs of ridicule and sarcasm; but in wit, as we have said, he was really defective;-and hence we find, in his epigrammatic poetry, endeavours to communicate to it a preternatural strength, by frequent references to subjects which are startling to frail mortality.

One other remark, regarding the writings of this illustrious man. An action may be highly praiseworthy in itself, and yet attended with some bad, along with many good consequences. The services which Burns rendered to the cause of rational religion, in the war which he waged against pseudo-piety and fanaticism, were invaluable; and, but for him and Byron, hypocrisy and humbug, both political; and religious, might, ere this, have been all-triumphant. But, as with some, the outward show and trappings of piety are mistaken for the substance, so, by others, a hostility to such show and trappings is mistaken for an impious spirit; and it has so happened, that, while the great body of hypocrites have found it their interest to represent Burns as an anti-religionist, the profligate and shallow-minded are well disposed to consider him in that light.

These being the faults of Burns, and such the mistakes prevailing respecting him, it is easy to conceive what is the general character of his imitators. First, they deem drunkenness an indispensable qualification to the office of poet;-a whisky-still is their true Castalian spring, in which all of them must be anabaptised; and then they can rhyme and rave to some purpose about poor Burns and poor Ferguson, and suggest pleasing and egotistical parallels. Next, they must swagger about their independence, and be as egregiously vain of tattered garments as if they were an inspiring mantle dropt upon them by one of the Muses. Then their works must be replete with the most disgusting ribaldry, and show a supreme contempt of all human and divine restraints. They must write poetical epistles, too, one to the other, and receive epistles in return, all stuffed, of course, with hyperbolical praise; and must take care to abuse critics as so many pickpockets, for preventing them from picking the pockets of the lieges. Our friend John is a fair sample of the squad, only, if we are to believe him, he was never addicted to strong potations. It has already been seen that he has a violent antipathy to school-discipline, but he also has a great dislike to the simple ceremony of marriage, as performed by our Church,-to Clergymen in general,-and to every thing, in short, that fetters the free will of man. And, we observe, that, in the whole of his poems, excepting those which are absolutely smutty, the word hell or damnation is introduced with true profligate levity.

The work before us bears evidence to the innumerable swarm of poets, who chirp out their feeble notes, like so many hedge-sparrows, in the single district of Galloway. The self-complacency with which Mac passes judgment upon their respective talents is vastly diverting-no less so than the compliments which some of them heap upon himself. We shall select a few of his multifarious notices of brother bards. "GEORDIE WISHART-An eminent rustic bard, and one of the most honest and social of men. As to his poetic talents, few there are who have the pleasure of estimating them, as they have not yet been fairly laid before the world's mycroscopic There is not much wildness and madness about them; they are simple and halesome, not unlike the strain of Allan Ramsay. His

eye.

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VOL. XV.

3 C

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General Review, and Eternal Almanack, are, indeed, superior to most rustic poems in my knowing. Their plots, and the way in which they are handled, prove Geordy to be a man of genius." Our friend Mac had made his friend Geordy a present of Macubau, in return for which the latter sends the former a poem, commencing thus:

"GERROND THE POET.-What a difference there is between this bard and the one just sketched. John Gerrond the gow, and George Wushart the sage. The first, an honour to the Muses, the other a disgrace. He was bred a blacksmith,-went to America,—drank and frolicked in the world beyond the flood,-came back again, tilting over the white-top'd surges of the Gulf of Florida, (to use his own language ;) then published, at various times, stuff he termed poems, shameless trash, appearing as if they had been dug out of the lovely bosom of an assmidden. For all there is much about him deserving my attention ;-some genuine madness, vanity, and folly. Poor Gerrond, I wont hurt thee; thou hast been injured much already by the destiny of thy stars; for Burns, you say, was very lucky, in appearing at the time he did. He just got the start of you by a few years, and took up all those subjects which was befitting your Muse. So Gerrond is a strange creature, and perhaps there never was any being moved about more independent than he in clogs and a ruffled sark, for which he has my highest praise. It is far from me to discourage the efforts of genius; I am quite on the side of a young poet, if I have any penetration to see he is on the right side o' the dyke; but, hoh, ho, Gerrond was never there, and is too old to speil over."

"KERMONT, THE TANNER.-A good composer of songs, and a Gallovidian born and bred, I believe. His songs are very natural, and contain some good strokes of humour. I could name twenty persons, and more, in the South of Scotland, who write songs, but then their effusions are so made up of art, that I refrain from speaking of them. Kermont, though, methinks, is an exception."

"MILLER O' MINNIEIVE.-Somewhere in the South of Scotland, a traveller may fall in with (by searching every nook) a village, or, more properly, a clauchan, termed Minnieive. Its latitude and longitude have never yet been properly ascertained; a thing, by the bye, much wanted now, as the place is every day getting farther into vogue. It will soon eclipse Ambleside on the lakes, as a hamlet of celebrity; for there is the abode of a miller, with whom, for poetry, and a thousand other fine things, no laker can be compared. Respecting this personage, none but poets can see or have any dealings, but to them he keeps not in utter darkness; so I shall just give my readers a peep of him from behind the cloud." The Miller of Minnieive thus addresses John Mactaggart:

"TROTTER O' NEW GALLOWA.-Lately Mr T. published some rustic Gallovidian tales, the which I am yver far from disliking, though I have

heard them railed against; they are homely told, in a half poetic, half Ossianic strain, and contain contented feelings. *** Rusticity is of slow, but steady growth; as to his sister, I hope she will not lay aside her pen; wherever I be, she may rely on me, as a steady, though unknown friend: the book on Heraldry, I do not know how it may do, but success to trade! There is some gentleman, too, besides Mr Trotter, in the Moorlands, who publishes books, but without his name. I believe it is Barber of Bogue; what is he afraid about? Is it in the nature of Hillmen to shrink? No, no. *** The tales of his are tolerable, though, methinks, not just so much as Mr Trotter's; the one has more fancy than the other."

"WULL NICHOLSON, THE POET.-William Nicholson, the poet; such is the truth, and the pleasure I feel in saying, so is of the highest kind. William certainly is a rustic bard of the first degree. *** His bardship wanders through the country a pedlar, and plays the bagpipes. *** As a song-writer, he may rank with any but Burns. * * * My friend William's poems are substantial, rustic buildings; his Country Lass is a dear creature, and will last at least five hundred years. My wish is, that he will lay down the pack for a while, and publish whatever other things in MSS. he may have by him."

We cannot prevail with ourselves to abridge in the least the following felicitous sketch:-" QUINTON RUMMLEKIRN.-A pretty fair Galloway philosopher and poet, who flourished, according to the Book of Doomsday, kept by Scoot Hutchie, in the time come never, three months ago. He was a cronnie while he lived with the Miller o' Minnieive, and, I believe, married his killman's third daughter, the one with the buck-teeth. He was fond of drinking filthy fluids, and his belly gave birth to some asks and mankeepers. I do not know that I have explained man-keepers: they are a kind of nimble lizard, and run about quarry-holes in warm weather. It is said, that, like the robin-breestie, they are in love with man; hence their name; and like that bird, no man will harm them. They are serpent-looking creatures, which he keeps, as it were. Well, this Quinton flashed about Tibby Sharper's for a few months, but kicked up his heels at last, in Auld Ned's antichamber, after quaffing vitriolic mountain dew. He gave me, when living, the meanings of a few rare words, though I differ with him in some respects as to their import. Thus peelaflee, he said, was a creature out of its element; a dandy attempting to play with men at the channelstane, for the dandy looks as if the wind had him peeled, and that he looked as if going to fly. A being much liker a warm room, sitting by the hip of a lisping lady, and a simmering track pot. Peelaflees are all those who look better on a street than they do in the country. It is a strange thing that, termed optics. I wonder those Brewsters, and other chaps who study it, cannot give us something to prevent our e'en being misled. Thus, some ladies look well in candle-light, and they all look their best in frosty weather. Let no man marry a wife in the time of frost, for when a thaw comes, she may disgust him. Bullocks look best in snaw: when cattle are transported from heathy fells to flowery-dells,' they have quite a different appearance; ay, ay. 'Brocks look best catching bumclocks;' situation is every thing. On the fore-ground of a Scotch dinner, the haggis should show his hurdies; and on the back the whusky grey-beardy. But to Quinton, as a philosopher, he said I was a fool, and he would prove it as fair as ever a mathematician proved Euclid's fifth in first to be Pons Assinorum, or the Asses Bridge; but I said it was needless to prove what all my acquaintance knew to be a fib; and that the world would say some day I was a damned clever fallow, one who would do what Archimedes could not do, make this very earth tremble in her orbit. The old millwright, and speckglass-grinder said, if he had a fulcrum he could do this, as he had a lever ready. Now, I have found the fulcrum, which is my mighty-I was just going to add, genius, when Quinton struck me beneath the lug with a hazle-rung, cut in Plunton wud, and laid me sprawling on Kirkcubrie's auld causey, just at Christal's Corner. So farewell to him and his philosophy. Let us view him as a poet, and, firstly, then