He had a curious ebony Ca' or Whistle, which, at the beginning of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow the Whistle, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories-without a single defeat-at the Courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty Courts of Germany, and challenged the Scottish Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the present Sir Robert, who-after three days and nights' hard contest-left the Scandinavian dead-drunk, 'And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.' Sir Walter Lawrie, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had

married the sister of Sir Walter. On Friday, the

16th of October, 1789, the Whistle was once more contended for-as related in the ballad-by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descendant of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field." The Poet, it should be particularly remarked, took no part whatever in the competition, even as a witness, his sole office being to perpetuate the memory of these three doughty wine-bibbers, by congealing them like toping flies in the amber of his verse. Professor Wilson, in no squeamish mood, pro

nounced "The 'Whistle,' in the eyes of Bacchus, the best of Triumphal Odes."]

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,

coins ;

shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall

wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,

Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

o'er ;

the man.

the field,

a core,

Six bottles a-piece had well worn out the night,

When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,

Turned o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,

And swore 't was the way that their ancestor did.

sage,

wage;

care;

But for wine and for welcome not more

known to fame,

A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wished that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

the end;

in light;

drink :

so set,

rhyme,

they were wet.

dom with Bruce,

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce;

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

[To a friendly challenge from Captain Grose we are indebted for this admirable masterpiece. Burns having entreated him to make honourable mention of Alloway Kirk in his Antiquities of Scotland, he promised compliance with the request

upon one condition, namely, that the Poet should

supply him with a metrical witch-story, as an accompaniment to the engraving. Mrs. Burns it

was who related to Cromek the marvellous

rapidity with which this poem was produced. According to her, it was the work of a single day-one account even stating that it was composed between breakfast and dinner: as Alexander Smith put it with an exultant chuckle, the best day's work ever done in Scotland, since Bruce won Bannockburn. Burns, during the early part of that memorable day, had passed the time alone in pacing his favourite walk upon

the river bank. Thither in the afternoon he was followed by his "bonnie Jean" and some of their children. Finding that he was "crooning to himself," and fearing lest their presence might be an interruption, his considerate wife loitered some little distance behind among the broom and heather with her brood of young ones. There her attention was caught by the Poet's impassioned gesticulations. She could hear him repeating aloud, while the tears ran down his face-"Now Tam! O Tam! had they been queans.' Towards evening, when the storm of composition had fairly run out, Burns, we are told by M'Diarmid, committed the verses to writing upon the top of a sod dyke, overhanging the river and directly they were completed rushed indoors to read them aloud by the fireside in a tone of rapturous exultation. A Carrick

farmer, named Douglas Graham, was the original

of Tam o' Shanter. Shanter itself, by the way, was the title of a farm belonging to Graham, not

ing to Lockhart, was resolutely of opinion, that Tam o' Shanter was the best of all his productions.]

"Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke." GAWIN DOUglas.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak' the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering

storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sun-
day,

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Mon

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How many lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale: Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted, unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories:
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drowned himsel' amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' plea-

sure;

That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

And sic a night he tak's the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last;
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swal-
lowed;

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed;

That night, a child might understand,
The de'il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
(A better never lifted leg,)
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots

sonnet ;

Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was 'cross the ford,

glancing;

And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst mak' us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usqueba, we 'll face the devil!

The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle,

Fair play, he cared na de'ils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonished,
Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys,
reels,

and

Put life and mettle in their heels.
At winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gi'e them music was his charge:
He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl!-
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shawed the dead in their last
dresses;

And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew ;
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they
cleekit,

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,

A' plump and strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen; Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad ha'e gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But withered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach,

But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie:

"There was ae winsome wench and walie,"

That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore!
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perished mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear,)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude though sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.-