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on which my southern feet tottered and stumbled, and all but fell!

How well I remember my girlish terror when called upon to pass from one stepping-stone to another, and the girlish bravado with which, wanting courage to turn back, and laughing, half to cover my trepidation, and half from genuine fright, I confronted the danger and performed the exploit! Ah! I am not the first who has done a bold thing in fear and trembling, as (if such truths were ever told) many a soldier on his first field could bear witness. At last, encouraged by the applause of friends and relatives, I even came to like the stepping-stones, the excitement, and the praise ; just as, cheered by similar bribery, the soldier learns to love a great battle-day.

Those stepping-stones at Mitford! I can see them now. I had heard of them before I saw them, and of their perils A lady’s-maid of my acquaintance, London-born and London-bredone of those dainty waiting gentlewomen for whose behoof Congreve, in the most graceful as well as the wittiest of his cornedies, invented the name of Mrs. Mincing—had been seduced into venturing across them, handed and supported by a French valet. She had fallen, of course, and had dragged her unlucky escort after her; and her description of her previous alarm, the agonies she underwent before her dip, and the terrors of the catastrophe; how she lost a kid slipper and spoiled a silk skirt, and was laughed at by the north-country savages into the bargain ; was enough to frighten all the silk skirts and kid slippers within fifty miles, to say nothing of the Mrs. Mincings, or of me.

Bright river Wansbeck! How many pleasant memories I owe to thy mere name! It were but common courtesy to wish a brimming basket and a smiling home to the kindly songster who casts his line across thy waters.

THE FISHER'S WELCOME.

We twa ha' fished the Kale sae clear,

And streams o' mossy Reed;
We've tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,

The Teviot and the Tweed;
An we will try them ance again,

When summer suns are fine;
An' we'll throw the flies thegither yet,

For the days o' lang syne.

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An' weel may the boatie row,

That wins the bairnie's bread! The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ; An' happy be the lot of a',

That wishes her to speed !

I cuist my line in Largo Bay,
· An' fishes I caught nine ;
There's three to boil, and three to fry,

An' three to bait the line.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed;
An' happy be the lot of a'

That wishes her to speed !
O weel may the boatie row

That fills a heavy creel,
An' cleads us a' frae head to feet,

An' buys our parritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ;
An' happy be the lot of a'

That wishes her to speed !
When Jamie vowed he wad be mine

An' won frae me my heart,
Oh muckle lighter grew my creel,

He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;
An' muckle lighter is the lade,

When luve bears up the creel.
My curch I pit upon my heid,

And dressed mysel fu' braw;
I trow my heart was dowf an' wae

When Jamie gaed awa'.
But weel may the boatie row,

An' lucky be her part,
An' lightsome be the lassie's care

That yields an honest heart.
When Sawney, Jock, and Jeanetie

Are up and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row,

An' lighten a' our care.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel!
An' lightsome be her heart that bears

The murlain and the creel.

An' when wi' age we are worn down,

An' hirpling round the door,
They'll row to keep us hale and warm,

As we did them before.
Then weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairnie's bread ;
An' happy be the lot of a'

That wish the boat to speed ! Again a song of the net and of the fishing-boat, and surely one of no ordinary merit. Miss Corbett is the authoress. We may well be proud of a poetess whose song is as bold and free as the breeze of which she sings :

WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE.
"Oh! blithely shines the bonnie sun

Upon the Isle of May,
And blithely comes the morning tide

Into St. Andrew's Bay,
Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair;

And up my bra' bairns three,
There's goud in yonder bonnie boat
That sails sae weel the sea !
When haddocks leave the Frith o' Forth,

An' mussels leave the shore,
When oysters climb up Berwick Law,
We'll go to sea no more,

No more,
We'll go to sea no more.
I've seen the waves as blue as air,

I've seen them green as grass ;
But I never feared their heaving yet

From Grangemouth to the Bass,
I've seen the sea as black as pitch,

I've seen it white as snow;
But I never feared its foaming yet.
Though the winds blew high or low.
When squalls capsize our wooden walls,

When the French ride at the Nore,
When Leith meets Aberdour half-way,
We'll go to sea no more,

No more,
We'll go to sea no more.
I never liked the landsman's life,

The earth is aye the same;
Gi'e me the ocean for my dower,

My vessel for my hame.

Gi'e me the fields that no man plows,

The farm that pays no fee;
Gi'e me the bonny fish, that glance
So gladly through the sea.
When sails hang flapping on the masts,

While through the wave we snore;
When in a calm we're tempest-tossed,
We'll go to sea no more,

No more,
We'll go to sea no more.

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith

The breezes softly blaw;
The gudeman has the lines on board :-

Awa’, my bairns, awa'.
An' ye be back by gloamin' gray,

An' bright the fire will low,
An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell
How weel the boat ye row.
When life's last sun gaes feebly down,

An' Death comes to our door,
When a' the world's a dream to us,
We'll go to sea no more,

No more,
We'll go to sea no more.

Gi'e me the fields that no man plows,

The farm that pays no fee.

What two lines are these? The whole song seerns set to the music of the winds and waves, so free and unshackled is the rhythm, and so hearty and seaman-like the sentiment. To spcak all praise in one word, it might have been written by Joanna Baillie.

Although not strictly a Fishing. Song, yet as one purporting to be sung by a mariner's wife, I can not resist the temptation of adding the charming ballad that concludes this paper. Mr. Robert Chambers attributes the authorship to William Julius Mickle, the translator of the “Lusiad,” and the writer of “ Cumnor Hall,” to which, and the impression made upon Sir Walter Scott, in early life, by the first stanza,* the world is probably

“The dews of summer night did fall,

The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.

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