Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death: I lookit round wi' watery ee, Hope wasna there-but I was laith To see my little bairnies dee. Just as the breeze the aspen stirr❜d, It was a lay that did renew It was of ane my waes that knew, And some kind hearts that cared for me. O sweet as breaks the rising day, A cot was rear'd by Mercy's hand, Amid the dreary wilderness; It rose as if by magic wand, A shelter to forlorn distress. And weel I ken that Heaven will bless The heart that issued the decree; The widow and the fatherless Can never pray, and slighted be. TICKLER. Very touching, James, indeed. You are a tragic poet after Aristotle's own heart; for well you know how to purge the soul by pity and terror. SHEPHERD. Ay, that I do, sir; an' by a' sorts of odd humour too. Snap your thumbs.-NoCTES AMBROSIANE, No. XXVIII. Some explanation is necessary still towards the understanding of the above song. It was written many years ago, at the joint request of Mr Galt and some other literary friends, for singing at the first meeting of some benevolent society in London, the denomination of which I have forgot; but it was for the purpose of relieving the wives and families of Scottish soldiers who had fallen in our sanguine wars abroad. The song was well received, having been sung by professional singers to the Scottish air of "The Birks of Invermay." THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE. NORTH. Stop, stop, Beelzebub, and read aloud that bit of paper you have in your fist. Yes, sir. BEELZEBUB. SHEPHERD. Lord sauf us, what a voice! They're my ain verses, too. Whisht, whisht 1 BEELZEBUB sings "The Great Muckle Village of Balmaquhapple,” to the tune of " The Sodger Laddie." D'YE ken the big village of Balmaquhapple, Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks, And pray to St Andrew, the god o' the Fife fo'ks; And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion : "O, blessed St Andrew, if e'er ye could pity fo’k, An' cheating an' stealing; O, grant them redemption, "There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye, it |