SHEPHERD'S DIETETICS.

223

warld, frae Cryptogamia upwards, I shall say naething anent that clause in our calamities, never having been at Cryptogamia, which, for anything I ken to the contrary, may be the neist kintra to Mesopotamia; neither shall I venture to contradic the Doctor about the pastigeos-unless, indeed, he mean pigeon-pies, in which case I gie him the lee direct in the maist unequivocal and categorical manner, they being the maist hailsome o' a' bird-pies whatsomever, whether common doecots or cushats-only you maunna eat them ower often, for

Tickler. But the Doctor continues: "Nine persons in ten eat as much soup and fish as would amply suffice for a meal.” Shepherd. A lee! a lee !-amply suffice for a meal!

Tickler. "A new stimulus appears in the form of stewed beef, côtelettes à la suprême; then comes a Bayonne or Westphalia ham, or a pickled tongue, or some analogous salted, but proportionably indigestible dish, and each of these enough for a single meal."

Shepherd. He forgets, he forgets, the Doctor forgets, Mr Paris, M.D. forgets that each man in the company cannot for his own individual share eat up the whole of the same individual dish. Each man only takes a platefu', or twa at the maist, o' each o' thae dishes; for whaever heard o' being helped three times to ilka dish on the board? Nae man would hae the face to ask it; and if he did, the prayer o' his petition would not be granted.

Tickler. "But this is not all; game follows; and to this again succeed the sweets, and a quantity of cheese."

Shepherd. Quite right quite right. O, Mr Tickler, what an effect, after sic a dinner, would Dr Paris produce on a guest by an emetic!

Tickler. 66 The whole is crowned with a variety of flatulent fruits and indigestible nick-nacks, included under the name of dessert, in which we must not forget to notice a mountain of sponge-cake."

Shepherd. And then what a cracking o' nitts, till a pyramid of shells rises up before each member of the club. But there I agree with the Doctor.

Tickler. "Thus then it is, that the stomach is made to receive, not one full meal, but a succession of meals, rapidly following each other, and vying in their miscellaneous and pernicious nature with the ingredients of Macbeth's cauldron."

Shepherd. There again Dr Paris speaks great nonsense, for Shakespeare meant no affront to a good denner-and too many great folk quote and allude to him with ignorance and presumption. Macbeth's cauldron, indeed! Had the Doctor been right, wha wadna be a witch or a warlock? But the truth is, he has written down the starvation system by the mere simple statement of that of generous repletion. I wish it were now about a quarter of an hour or ten minutes before denner, instead of twa hours after it; but I will try and put off till supper; and meanwhile here goes a sort o' nonsensical

There's some souls 'll yammer and cheep1

If a win'le-strae lie in their way;

And some through this bright world 'ill creep,
As if fear'd for the light o' God's day.

And some would not lend ye a boddle,

Although they would borrow a crown;
And some folk 'ill ne'er fash their noddle
Wha's waukin, if they can sleep soun’.

And some wi' big scars on their face,
Point out a prin scart on a frien';
And some black as sweeps wi' disgrace,
Cry out the whole world's unclean.

Some wha on the best o't can cram,
Think a'body else maun be fu';
Some wouldna gie misery a dram,

Though they swattle themsels till they spew.
Sure's death! there can be but sma' pleasure
In livin 'mang sic a cursed crew,
An't werena the soul's sacred treasure,
The friendship that's found in a few.

That treasure, let's hoord it thegither,
Enjoy my gude luck or thole ill,
Nor grudge though wine's sent to a brither
In hoggits, when I've but a gill.

Then here's to the chiel wha's sae bauld
As to trust his ain thought to his tongue,
Wha e'en, though his trunk's growin auld,
Has a soul and a heart that are young.

1 Written by Hogg.

A CAT-CONCERT.

Before I an auld frien' forget,

My memory first I maun tine ;—

Here's a glass for anither health yet,

Need'st thou guess, angel woman!—it's thine.

225

North. Thanks-a queer, bold, independent, soul-speaking thing

Shepherd. Mercy on us! what a deevil o' a noise! heard ye ever the like o' that?

Tickler. A cat-concert, James. The Toms and Tabbies. have overheard your song, and are striking up in return an imitation of the Hunter's Chorus in the "Freischutz."

Shepherd. I've often thocht it aneuch to sicken ane o' love a' their days, just to reflec that all that hissing and spitting, and snuffing and squeaking, and squealing and howling, and growling and groaning, a' mixed up into ae infernal gallemaufry o' din, unlike onything else even in this noisy world, was, wi' these gentle domestic creatures, the saftest, sweetest expression o' the same tender passion that from Adam's lips whispered persuasion into Eve's ear in the bowers of Paradise! But it's no possible to thole this ony langer-out wi' the musket, Mr Tickler, and let drive at them -and when a's silent again, I'll gie ye anither sang.

Tickler. Take advantage of that pause, James, and begin. Shepherd. Up wi' the fiddle, then, and let's hae an accompaniment o' baith vocal and instrumental music.

North. Stop, James! Your mine is inexhaustible. But did you ever hear Irish Johnstone sing-my dear crony of the olden time, Jack Johnstone? Here goes an attempt at his style of chaunt.

THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR.
AIR-" The Athlone Landlady."

Oh! 'twas Dermot O'Rowland M'Figg
That could properly handle the twig!
He went to the fair,

And kick'd up a dust there,

In dancing the Donnybrook jig,

With his twig

Oh my blessing is Dermot M'Figg!

1 Written by Crofton Croker.

VOL. I.

P

226

THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR.

When he came to the midst of the fair,
He was all in a paugh for fresh air,
For the fair very soon

Was as full as the moon,

Such mobs upon mobs as were there,

Oh rare!

So more luck to sweet Donnybrook fair!

The souls they came pouring in fast,
To dance while the leather would last,
For the Thomas Street brogue,
Was there in much vogue,

And oft with the brogue the joke pass'd,
Quite fast,
While the cash and the whisky did last !
But Dermot, his mind on love bent,
In search of his sweetheart he went,
Peep'd in here, peep'd in there,
As he walk'd through the fair,
And took a small taste in each tent
As he went,
Och! on whisky and love he was bent.

When, who should he spy in a jig,
With a meal-man, so tall and so big,
But his own darling Kate,
So gay and so neat-

Faith, her partner he hit him a dig,

The pig,
He beat the meal out of his wig.

The piper, to keep him in tune,
Struck up a gay lilt very soon,
Until an arch wag

Cut a hole in his bag,

And at once put an end to the tune

Too soon

Och! the music flew up to the moon!

To the fiddler, says Dermot M'Figg,
If you please, sir, play "Sheelah na Gig,"
We'll shake a loose toe,

While you humour the bow;

To be sure, you won't warm the wig
Of M'Figg,
While he's dancing a tight Irish jig.

As ever at mother's breast smiled!

And maybe you don't know Jane Brown,
Who served goats' whey in Dundrum's sweet town.
"Twas her uncle's half brother

That married my mother,

And brought me this new yellow gown,

To go down,

When the marriage was held at Miltown.

By the powers! then, says Dermot, 'tis plain,
Like a son of that rapscallion Cain,

My best friend I have kilt,

Though no blood there is spilt,

And the devil a harm did I mane,

227

Shepherd. The like o' that was never heard in this warld afore. The brogue as perfec as if you had been born and bred in the bog o' Allen! How muckle better this kind o' weel-timed daffin that aye gangs on here at Southside, than literary and philosophical conversation, and criticism on the fine arts, and polemical discussion wi' red faces and fiery een