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94

TICKLER SUB-EDITOR.

little trigger than when at work,—a clean mutch, or a ribbon round their foreheads,-their bosoms made cosh1 and tidy

Shepherd. Whisht, whisht. Ony mair verses amang the materials? Let us collec them a' into a heap, and send them to the cyook to singe the fools. What's that your glowering on, Sub?

Tickler. Sub?

Shepherd. Ay, Sub. I create you Sub-yeditor of the Magazine. You maun correc a' the Hebrew, and Chinese, and German, and Dutch, Greek and Latin, and French and Spanish, and Itawlian. You maun likewise help me wi' the pints, and in kittle words look after the spellin. Noo and then ye may overhawl, and cut down, and transmogrify an article that's ower lang, or ower stupid in pairts, putting some smeddum2 in't,—and soomin a' up wi' a soundin peroration. North had nae equal at that; and I hae kent him turn out o' his hands a short, pithy, biting article, frae a long, lank, lumbering rigmarole, taken, at a pinch, out the verra Balaam-box. The author wondered at his ain genius and erudition when he read it, and wad gang for a week after up and down the town, asking everybody he met if they had read his leading-article in Ebony. The sumph thocht he had written it himsel! I can never hope to equal Mr North in that faculty, which in him is a gift o' nature; but in a' things else, I am his equal, and in some, dinna ye think sae, his superior? Tickler. I do. There seems to me something pretty in this little song. To do it justice, I must sing it.

TUNE-" The Sailor's Life."

1.

Oh! often on the mountain's side
I've
sung with all a shepherd's pride,
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along,
Bore down the burden of the song.

1 Cosh-neat.

3 Tells his tale.

A shepherd's life's the life for me,
He tends his flock so merrily,—
He sings his song, and tells his tale,3
And is beloved through all the vale.

2 Smeddum-spirit.

Milton, in l'Allegro, uses this expression as a synonym for

"Counts his flock;" here, by a singular misapprehension, the words seem to be used literally in the sense of "tells his story !”

HE SINGS.

2.

When Summer gladdens all the scene
With golden light and vesture green,
Too short appears the cheerful day,
While thus he pours his artless lay,

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

3.

When winter comes with sullen blast,
And clouds and mists are gathering fast,
He folds his plaid, and on the hill
His blithesome song is with him still—
A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

4.

And when at eve, with guileless mirth,
He cheers his humble, happy hearth,
The storm without may whistle round,
But still within the song is found-

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

5.

Oh! envy not the palace proud,
With all its gaudy, glittering crowd;
For who would ever be a king,
When on the hill-side he could sing,

A shepherd's life's the life for me, &c.

95

Shepherd. Tut, tut!-it's wersh'-wersh as a potauto without saut. The writer o' that sang never wore a plaid. What for will clever chaps, wi' a classical education, aye be writin awa at sangs about us shepherds? Havers !2-Let Burns, and me, and Allan Cunningham, talk o' kintra matters, under our ain charge. We'll put mair real life and love into ae line-aiblins into a word-than a' the classical callants that ever were at College.

Tickler. Well, well-here's a poem that may as well go into the fire-heap at once, without farther inspection.

Shepherd. For God's sake, haud your hand, Mr Tickler!dinna burn that, as you houp to be saved! It's my ain haunwritin-I ken't at a' this distance-I'll swear til't in a court o' justice! Burn that, and you're my Sub nae langer. Tickler. My dear Editor, I will sing it.

1 Wersh-insipid.

2 Havers-jargon.

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Shepherd. Na, you shanna sing't—I'll sing't mysel, though I'm as hoarse as a craw. Breathin that easterly harr is as bad as snooking down into your hawse sae many yards o' woollen. Howsomever, I'll try. And mind, nane o' your accompaniments wi' me, either o' fiddle or vice. A second's a thing that I just perfectly abhor,-it seems to me-though I hae as gude an ear as Miss Stephens' hersel-and better, too-to be twa different tunes sang at ae time-a maist intolerable practice. Mercy me!-It's the twa Epithaliums that I wrote for the young Duke o' Buccleuch's birthday, held at Selkirk the 25th of November 1825.2

AIR-" Killiecrankie."

1.

Rejoice, ye wan and wilder'd glens,
Ye dowie dells o' Yarrow,
This is the day that Heaven ordains
To banish a' your sorrow;

Ilk forest shaw, an' lofty law,

Frae grief and gloom arouse ye,
What gars ye snood your brows wi' snaw,
An' look sae grim and grousy?

2.

What though the winter storm and flood
Set a' your cliffs a-quaking,

An' frost an' snaw leave nought ava
On your green glens o' braken?
Yet soon the spring, wi' bud an' flower,
An' birds an' maidens singing,
The bonny rainbow an' the shower,
Shall set your braes a-ringing.

3.

We saw our sun set in the cloud,
For gloaming far too early,
An' darkness fa' wi' eiry shroud,
While hearts beat sad and sairly;
But after lang an' lanesome night,
Our morn has risen mair clearly;
An' O to wan an' waefu' wight,

Sic blithesome morn is cheery.

1 Afterwards the Countess of Essex.

2 Hogg's munificent landlord, the present Duke of Buccleuch, born in 1806.

HE REPROVETH TICKLER.

4.

This is the day that wakes our spring,
Our rainbow's arch returning;
This is the dawning sent by Heaven
To banish care and mourning.
O, young Buccleuch, our kinsman true,
Our shield, and firm defender;
To thee this day our love we pay,
Our blessings kindly render !

5.

O, young Buccleuch! O, kind Buccleuch !
What thousand hearts yearn o'er thee;
What thousand hopes await thy smile,
And prostrate lie before thee:
Be thou thy Border's pride and boast,
Like sires renown'd in story;

And thou shalt never want an host

For country, King, and glory!

Tickler. Beautiful, James, quite beautiful!

97

Shepherd. Mr Tickler, I think, considering all things, the situation I now occupy, my rank in society—and the respect which I have at all times been proud to show you and Mrs Tickler, that you might call me Mr Hogg, or Mr Yeditor? Why always James-simple James?

Tickler. A familiar phrase, full of affection. being called Timothy.

I insist on

But as a

Shepherd. Weel, weel, be it so now and then. general rule, let it be Mr Tickler,-Mr Hogg, or, which I would prefer, Mr Editor. Depend upon it, sir, that there is great advantage to social intercourse in the preservation of those mere conversational forms by which "table-talk" is protected from degenerating into a coarse or careless familiarity. Tickler. Suppose you occasionally call me "Southside," and that I call you "Mount Benger

Shepherd. A true Scottish fashion that of calling gentlemen by the names of their estates. Did you ever see the young Duke? You nod, Never!-He's a real scion of the old tree. What power that laddie has ower human happiness!-He has a kingdom, and never had a king more loyal subjects. All his thousands o' farmers are proud o' him, and his executors; and that verra pride gies them a higher character.

VOL. I.

The clan

98

SONG ON THE DUKE."

must not disgrace the Chief. The "Duke" is a household word all over the Border;-the bairns hear it every day;and it links us thegither in a sort o' brotherhood.1 Curse the Radicals, who would be for destroying the old aristocracy of the land!—

WAT O' BUCCLEUCH.

AIR-" Thurot's Defeat."

Some sing with devotion

Of feats on the ocean,

And nature's broad beauties in earth and in skies;

Some rant of their glasses,

And some of the lasses,

And these are twa things we maun never despise.
But down with the praises

Of lilies and daisies,

Of posies and roses the like never grew:
That flimsy inditing

That poets delight in,

They've coined for a havering half-witted crew.

Chorus.

But join in my chorus,

Ye blades o' the Forest,

We'll lilt of our muirs and our mountains of blue;
And hollow for ever,

Till a' the town shiver,

The name of our master, young Wat o' Buccleuch.

Of Douglas and Stuart,

We'd mony a true heart,

Wha stood for auld Scotland in dangers enew;
And Scotts wha kept order

So lang on the Border,

Then wha heardna tell o' the Wats o' Buccleuch ?
Now all these old heroes,

Of helms and monteros,

O wha wad believe that the thing could be true;
In lineage unblighted,

And blood are united,

In our noble Master, young Wat o' Buccleuch.

Then join in my chorus, &c.

1 Nobly has the Duke of Buccleuch sustained the character here ascribed to him; and amply has he fulfilled the promise of his youth.

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