spirit, as if he had a misgiving that it might be questioned :

"Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a withered rash,
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;

Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread;
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye powers wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis !"

Yet there can be no question that this potent pudding, which I have heard likened to a boiled bagpipe, is the lineal descendant of the French hachis, which Cotgrave interprets as "a sliced gallimaufry, or minced meat."

Our hodge-podge is a gift from the same quarter. A term resembling it is in use in English law: but there is no resisting Cotgrave's "hochepot; a hotchpot, a gallimaufry, a confused mingle - mangle of divers things jumbled or put together."* A special

*

Oddly enough, this dish also is not without its sacred poet, vehemently protesting its Scotchness :

"O leeze me on the canny Scotch,
Wha first contrived, without a botch,
To mak the gusty, good Hotch-Potch,
That fills the wame sae brawly:
There's carrots intill 't, and neaps intill 't,
There's cybies intill 't, and leeks intill 't,
There's pease, and beans, and beets intill 't,
That soom through ither sae brawly.

The French mounseer, and English loon,
When they come daunderin' through our town,
Wi' smirks an' smacks they gulp it down,
An' lick their lips fu' brawly :

For there's carrots intill 't, and neaps intill 't,
And cybies intill 't, and leeks intill 't,
There's mutton, and lamb, and beef intill 't,
That maks it sup sae brawly.

And Irish Pat, when he comes here,
To lay his lugs in our good cheer,

He shools his cutty wi' unco steer,

And clears his cogue fu' brawly:

For there's carrots intill 't, and neaps intill 't,
There's pease, and beans, and beets intill 't,
And a' good gusty meats intill 't,

That grease his gab fu' brawly.

A dainty Dame she cam' our way,
An' sma' soup meagre she wad hae:
'Wi' your fat broth I cannot away,—
It maks me scunner fu' brawly:

For there's carrots intill 't, and neaps intill 't,
There 's cybies intill 't, and leeks intill 't,

And filthy, greasy meats intill 't,

That turn my stamach sae brawly.

delicacy from the poultry-yard is known by the very Scotch-like name of howtowdy; and this is a special gift from the land of cocks, being no other than the hutaudeau, which Cotgrave says is "a cockerell, or big cock chick." In Burns's inventory of the contents of Grose's museum, we have

Parritch-pats an' auld saut-backets
Afore the Flood."

The saut-backet, or salt-cellar, is from the French bacquet, just as our old term for a dinner-plate, an ashet, is from assiette, and basnatis, or small bowls,

She gat her soup: It was unco trash,
And little better than poor dish-wash;
"Twad gie a man the water-brash

To sup sic dirt sae brawly:

Nae carrots intill 't, nor neaps intill 't,
Nae cybies intill 't, nor leeks intill 't,
Nor nae good gusty meats intill 't,
To line the ribs fu' brawly.

Then here's to ilka kindly Scot;
Wi' mony good broths he boils his pot,
But rare hotch-potch beats a' the lot,

It smells and smacks sae brawly:
For there 's carrots intill 't, and neaps intill 't,
There's pease, and beans, and beets intill 't,
And hearty, wholesome meats intill 't,
That stech the kite sae brawly."

These lines are taken from a privately printed collection of poems written by my late accomplished and venerable friend, Archibald Bell, the Sheriff of Ayrshire; and I think some of those who merely knew him as a man of business will be a little surprised, if not scandalised, to know that he was capable of such an effusion.

from bassinet. Among Grose's accomplishments as

an antiquary,

"The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gully."

The origin of this word jocteleg was long a puzzle, until Lord Hailes solved it by attesting the existence of a large knife with the maker's name on it, 66 Jacques de Liege."

The ancient allies have left among us a more formidable memorial in the "bastle - house," or "bastle-tower," generally the name given to the small fortresses built for their protection by the inhabitants of small towns or hamlets near the border.

A considerable number of such coincidences may be found, but I shall content myself with one as a last word. I hope the novels of John Galt, and their descriptions of Scotch life—true, warm, and genial, like the pictures of David Teniers-are not yet forgotten. One of the best of them, The Ayrshire Legatees,' gives us the adventures of a country clergyman and his wife, who have gone to London. to secure a large inheritance unexpectedly opening to them by the death of a rich relation. Among the many types of civilised comfort which Mrs Pringle left behind her when she sojourned in that "ausome place," she informed her favourite gossip,

who was fortunate enough to be within reach of the luxuries of the nearest "burgh toon," that "there wasna a jigot o' mutton to be had within the four wa's o' Lunnon." It might, perhaps, have consoled her for the ridicule bestowed by her city friends on her barbarous method of applying for that universal commodity, a leg of mutton, had she remembered that her own special term for it was a bequest by the politest nation in the world, and was the way in which the French courtiers of Queen Mary would give their orders in the victualling-shops of Edinburgh.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.