While tocherless mays are negleckit,-
A crying and scandalous case.

And Maysie, wha's clavering aunty
Wad match her wi' Lowrie the laird,
And learns the young fule to be vaunty
But neither to spin nor to caird.

And Andrew, wha's granny is yearning
To see him a clerical blade,

Was sent to the college for learning,
And cam' back a coof, as he gaed.

And there will be auld Widow Martin,
That ca's hersel thirty and twa;
And thraw-gabbit Madge, wha for certa
Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw.

And Elspy, the sewster sae genty,
A pattern o' havins and sense,

Will straik on her mittens sae genty,
And crack wi' Mess John i' the spence

And Angus, the seer o' fairlies,

That sits on the stane at his door, And tells about bogles, and mair lies Than tongue ever uttered before.

And there will be Bauldie, the boaster, Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue; Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,

Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young.

And Hugh, the town-writer, I'm thinking,
That trades in his lawyerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and drinking,
To bring after grist to his mill.

And Maggie-ha! ha! will be civil,
And let the wee bridie a-bee;
A vilipend tongue is the devil,
And ne'er was encouraged by me.

Then, fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding,
The fun and the feasting to share.

For they will get sheep's-head and haggi And browst o' the barley-mow;

E'en he that comes latest and lag is
May feast upon dainties enow.

Veal florentines in the o'en baken,

Weel plenished wi' raisins and fat,
Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken
Het reeking frae spit or frae pat.

And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill),

To drink the young couple good luck,
Weel filled wi' a braw beechen ladle,
Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancing and daffing,
And reelin' and crossing' o' han's,
Till even auld Luckie is laughing,
As back by the aumry she stan's.

Sic bobbing, and flinging, and whirling,
While fiddlers are making their din,
And pipers are droning and skirling,
As loud as the roar of the linn.

Then, fy, let us a' to the wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.

CATHERINE FANSHAWE.

It has always seemed to me that one of the happiest positions let me say the very happiest position, that a woman of great talent can occupy in our high civilization, is that of living a beloved and distinguished member of the best literary society; enjoying, listening, admiring; repaying all that she receives by a keen and willing sympathy; cultivating to perfection the social faculty; but abstaining from the wider field of authorship, even while she throws out here and there such choice and chosen bits as prove that nothing but disinclination to enter the arena debars her from winning the prize. How much better to belong to that portion of the audience which gives fame to the actor-that class of readers to whom the writer looks for reputation than to figure as actor or as author oneself!

Besides the infinite wisdom of resting in such a position, seated midway on the hill of fame, enjoying all the beauties of the pros

pect, and shielded from the storms of the summit, and the perils of the steep and rocky way, besides its security, its happiness, and its wisdom, such a choice has always appeared to me indicative of the very finest qualities, mental and moral ;-feminine, modest, generous, pure. I look up to a woman, who, with powers to command the most brilliant literary success, contents herself with a warm and unenvying sympathy in the success of others, with a mixture of reverence and admiration greater than I can accord to mere genius, however high. Rare are such women beyond all rareness but that they do exist, my friend Miss Goldsmid is a living instance; and that there was one such most eminent in the last generation, was felt by all who had the happiness and the privilege of knowing Catherine Fanshawe.

The name of this gifted woman is connected with the whole of that glorious society which formed the pride and ornament of London during the early part of the present century—the society, which, after a short interregnum, succeeded the illustrious circle that had formed the great literary club in the days of Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith, and Reynolds. Even with these names their successors may well bear a comparison. To mention them is enough; Scott, Southey, Rogers, Moore, Joanna Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Madame d'Arblay, Wordsworth, Crabbe, Mrs. Siddons, Sotheby, Sharpe, W. R. Spencer, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Sir James Mackintosh, Lord Erskine, Lord Holland, William Harness, Sydney Smith, Campbell, Canning, Thomas Hope :there is no telling where to stop. And among this society, at once so dazzling and so charming, there was no name more distinguished for brilliant and various talent, or for every attractive quality, than that of Catherine Fanshawe.

Co-heiress with two other daughters of an ancient gentleman's family, the three lived together in that happy sisterly union peculiar to our country. Besides her remarkable talent for graceful and polished pleasantry, whether in prose or in verse, Miss Catherine Fanshawe was admirable as a letter-writer, as a reader of Shakspeare, and as a designer in almost every style. One of the few survivors of that brilliant society, himself a first-rate judge of art, says of her-" Her drawings and etchings are those of an artist; and so different are they in kind, that I have seen a large drawing, called 'The Genius of the Storm,' which if I were not afraid of my own prepossessions, I should say is sublime;

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while there are groups of children by her which no one has ever surpassed for their beauty, simplicity and truth; and I have hanging up over my study fireplace a long aqua-tinted etching of hers, called 'An After-dinner Conversation,' which is as comical as any thing by Banbury, and a great deal better than any thing of his, because while quite as humorous it is less caricatured."

Of course, the secret of this variety and of this excellence, lay in her power and her habit of observation. "She saw every thing," says that excellent friend of hers and of mine to whom I owe the account of her drawings; "she saw every thing--the whole of it," and was only restrained from turning it into the most finished comedy by those feelings of a gentlewoman and a Christian (how nearly those words are synonymous!) which prevented her from running the risk of giving a moment's pain to any human being. I have a theory that the very highest talent commonly keeps very good company; and no better illustration of its truth could be found than this admirable person, whose Christian graces were quite on a par with her mental endowments.

Far too few of her poems have been published. Those which I subjoin, have been taken from a volume now very scarce, consisting of miscellaneous pieces, by many authors, edited by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, for the benefit of a friend. The volume was published by subscription, and is remarkable not only for these charming pieces of pleasantry, and for some of the best poems of the editor, but as containing Sir Walter Scott's most successful dramatic effort, "Mac Duff's Cross," and Mr. Merivale's "Devon's Poly Olbion," and also for having introduced to the world Southey's whimsical and characteristic experiment upon rhyme and language, called "The Cataract of Lodore."

I plunge at once into one of the pleasantest of Miss Catherine Fanshawe's poems, "The Abrogation of the Birth-night Ball, by a Beau of the Last Century." The description of the minuet is admirable.

Forever at his lordly call

Uprose the spangled night!

Leading in gorgeous splendor bright

The minuet and the ball.

And balls each frolic hour may bring
That revels through the maddening spring,
Shaking with hurried step the painted floor,
But minuets are no more!

No more the well-taught feet shall tread
The figure of the mazy zed;

The beau of other times shall mourn
As gone and never to return,

The graceful bow, the courtesy low,
The floating forms that undulating glide,
(Like anchor'd vessels on the swelling tide,)
That rise and sink alternate as they go,
Now bent the knee, now lifted on the toe;
The sidelong step that works its even way,
The slow pas-grave and slower balancé ;
Still with fixed gaze he eyes the imagined fair,
And turns the corner with an easy air.

Not so his partner. From her tangled train
To free her captive foot she strives in vain;
Her tangled train the struggling captive holds
(Like great Atrides) in its fatal folds;
The laws of gallantry his aid demand.
The laws of etiquette withhold his hand.

Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er,
And beaus and etiquette shall soon exist no more.
At their speed behold advancing

Modern men and women dancing!

Step and dress alike express,

Above, below, from heel to toe,

Male and female awkwardness.

Without a hoop, without a ruffle,
One eternal jig and shuffle.
Where's the air, and where's the gait?
Where's the feather in the hat?
Where the frizzed toupee? and where,
Oh! where's the powder for the hair?