For was e'er heiress with much gold in chest,
And dower'd with acres of wheat-bearing land,
By such a pack of men, in am'rous quest,

Fawningly spaniel'd to bestow her hand?
Where'er I walk, the air that feeds my breast
Is by the gusty sighs of lovers fann'd;
Each wind that blows wafts love-cards to my lap,
Whilst I-ah, stupid Mag!-avoid each am'rous
trap!

Then come, let me my suitors' merits weigh,

And in the worthiest lad my spouse select:--
First, there's our Anster merchant, Norman Ray,
A powder'd wight with golden buttons deck'd,
That stinks with scent, and chats like popinjay,
And struts with phiz tremendously erect:
Four brigs has he, that on the broad sea swim,—
He is a pompous fool-I cannot think of him,

Next is the maltster Andrew Strang, that takes
His seat i' the bailies' loft on Sabbath-day,
With paltry visage white as oaten-cakes,
As if no blood runs gurgling in his clay;
Heav'ns! what an awkward hunch the fellow

makes,

As to the priest he does the bow repay! Yet he is rich-a very wealthy man, true-

Here broke the lady her soliloquy;

For in a twink her pot of mustard, lo!
Self-moved, like Jove's wheel'd stool that rolls

on high,

'Gan caper on her table to and fro,
And hopp'd and fidgeted before her eye,
Spontaneous, here and there, a wond'rous
show:

As leaps, instinct with mercury, a bladder,
So leaps the mustard-pot of bonnie Maggie
Lauder.

Soon stopp'd its dance th' ignoble utensil,
When from its round and small recess there

came

Thin curling wreaths of paly smoke, that still,
Fed by some magic unapparent flame,
Mount to the chamber's stucco'd roof, and fill
Each nook with fragrance, and refresh the

dame:

Ne'er smelt a Phoenix-nest so sweet, I wot,
As smelt the luscious fumes of Maggie's mustard-
pot.

It recked censer-like; then, strange to tell!
Forth from the smoke, that thick and thicker
grows,

But, by the holy rood, I will have none of A fairy of the height of half an ell,

Andrew.

Then for the lairds-there's Melvil of Carnbee,
A handsome gallant, and a beau of spirit;
Who can go down the dance so well as he?

And who can fiddle with such manly merit?
Ay, but he is too much the debauchee—

His cheeks seem sponges oozing port and claret;
In marrying him I should bestow myself ill,
And so I'll not have you, thou fuddler, Harry
Melvil!

There's Cunningham of Barns, that still assails
With verse and billet-doux my gentle heart,
A bookish squire, and good at telling tales,
That rhymes and whines of Cupid, flame, and
dart;

But, oh! his mouth a sorry smell exhales,
And on his nose sprouts horribly the wart;
What though there be a fund of lore and fun in
him?

In dwarfish pomp, majestically rose:
His feet, upon the table 'stablished well,

Stood trim and splendid in their snake-skin
hose;

Gleam'd topaz-like the breeches he had on,
Whose waistband like the bend of summer rain-
bow shone.

His coat seem'd fashion'd of the threads of gold,
That intertwine the clouds at sunset hour;
And, certes, Iris with her shuttle bold
Wove the rich garment in her lofty bower;
To form its buttons were the Pleiads old

Pluck'd from their sockets, sure by genie-power,
And sew'd upon the coat's resplendent hem;
Its neck was lovely green, cach cuff a sapphire
gem.

As when the churlish spirit of the Cape To Gama, voyaging to Mozambique, Up-popp'd from sea, a tangle-tassel'd shape, With mussels sticking inch-thick on his cheek, He has a rotten breath-I cannot think of Cun- And 'gan with tortoise-shell his limbs to scrape, ningham.

Why then, there's Allardyce, that plies his suit
And battery of courtship more and more;
Spruce Lochmalonie, that with booted foot

Each morning wears the threshold of my door;
Auchmoutie too, and Bruce, that persecute

My tender heart with am'rous buffets sore:Whom to my hand and bed should I promote? Eh-la! what sight is this?-what ails my mustardpot?

And yawn'd his monstrous blobberlips to speak; Brave Gama's hairs stood bristled at the sight, And on the tarry deck sunk down his men with fright.

So sudden (not so huge and grimly dire)

Uprose to Maggie's stounded eyne the sprite, As fair a fairy as you could desire,

With ruddy cheek, and chin and temples white; His eyes seem'd little points of sparkling fire,

That, as he look'd, charm'd with inviting light;

As e'er on

He was, indeed, as bonny a fay and brisk,
long moonbeam was seen to ride and
frisk.

Around his bosom, by a silken zone,

A little bagpipe gracefully was bound, Whose pipes like hollow stalks of silver shone, The glist'ring tiny avenues of sound; Beneath his arm the windy bag, full-blown, Heaved up its purple like an orange round, And only waited orders to discharge

Call to thine house the light-heel'd men, that run
Afar on messages for Anster Town,-
Fellows of sp'rit, by none in speed outdone,

Of lofty voice, enough a drum to drown,
And bid them hie, post-haste, through all the
nation,

And publish, far and near, this famous proclamation:

Let them proclaim, with voice's loudest tone,
That on your next approaching market-day,

Its sky at large. Shall merry sports be held in Anster Loan,

He wav'd his hand to Maggie, as she sat Amaz'd and startled on her carved chair; Then took his petty feather-garnish'd hat In honour to the lady from his hair, And made a bow so dignifiedly flat,

That Mag

was witched with his beauish air.

At last he spoke, with voice so soft, so kind,
So sweet, as if his throat with fiddle-strings was

lin'd:

Lady! be not offended that I dare,
Thus forward and impertinently rude,
Emerge, uncall'd, into the upper air,

Intruding

on a maiden's solitude.

Nay, do not be alarm'd, thou lady fair!
Why startle so?-I am a fairy good;
Not one of those that, envying beauteous maids,
Speckle their skins with moles, and fill with

For,

spleens their heads.

as conceal'd in this clay-house of mine, I overheard thee in a lowly voice,

Weighing thy lovers' merits, with design Now on the worthiest lad to fix thy choice, up-bolted from my paltry shrine,

Ihave

To give thee, sweet-ey'd lass, my best advice; For by the life of Oberon my king!

With celebration notable and gay;

And that a prize, than gold or precious stone
More precious, shall the victor's toils repay,
Ev'n thy own form with beauties so replete,--
Nay, Maggie, start not thus!-thy marriage-bed,
my sweet.

First, on the loan shall ride full many an ass,

With stout whip-wielding rider on his back,
Intent with twinkling hoof to pelt the grass,

And pricking up his long ears at the crack;
Next o'er the ground the daring men shall pass,
Half-coffin'd in their cumbrances of sack,
With heads just peeping from their shrines of
bag,

Horribly hobbling round, and straining hard for
Mag.

Then shall the pipers groaningly begin

In squeaking rivalry their merry strain,
Till Billyness shall echo back the din,

And Innergelly woods shall ring again;
Last, let each man that hopes thy hand to win
By witty product of prolific brain,
Approach, and, confident of Pallas' aid,

Claim by an hum'rous tale possession of thy bed.

To a ticklish Such are the wondrous tests, by which, my love!

thing.

And never shall good Tommy Puck permit
Such an assemblage of unwonted charms
To cool some lecher's lewd licentious fit,
And sleep imbounded by his boisterous arms:

The merits of thy husband must be tried, And he that shall in these superior prove

(One proper husband shall the Fates provide), Shall from the loan with thee triumphant move Homeward, the jolly bridegroom and the bride, And at thy house shall eat the marriage-feast,

What though his fields by twenty ploughs be split, When I'll pop up again!-Here Tommy Puck

And golden wheat wave riches on his farms?
His house is shame-it cannot, shall not be;
A greater, happier doom, O Mag, awaiteth thee.
Strange are indeed the steps by which thou must
Thy glory's happy eminence attain;
But fate hath fix'd them, and 'tis fate's t' adjust
The mighty links that ends to means enchain;
Yor may poor Puck his little fingers thrust
Into the links to break Jove's steel in twain:
Then, Maggie, hear, and let my words descend
Into thy soul, for much it boots thee to attend.
To-morrow, when o'er th' Isle of May the sun
Lifts up his forehead bright with golden crown,

surceast.

He ceas'd, and to his wee mouth, dewy wet,
His bagpipe's tube of silver up he held,
And underneath his down-press'd arm he set
His purple bag, that with a tempest swell'd;
He play'd and pip'd so sweet, that never yet
Mag had a piper heard that Puck excell'd;
Had Midas heard a tune so exquisite,
By Heav'n! his long base ears had quiver'd with
delight.

Tingle the fire-ir'ns, poker, tongs, and grate,
Responsive to the blithesome melody;

And whirl'd like whirligig, and reel'd, and bobb'd, | They skirr'd, they flounder'd through the sleets

Th' injunction echoing rung, so strict and strange Next, shall th' advent'rous men, that dare to try to hear.

"And he whose tongue the wittiest tale shall tell, | Plung'd deep into a sack his precious body, Whose bagpipe shall the sweetest tune resound, And school'd it for the race, and hopp'd around Whose heels, tho' clogg'd with sack, shall jump | his study.

it well,

Whose ass shall foot with fleetest hoof the ground. Such was the sore preparatory care

He who from all the rest shall bear the bell,

With victory in every trial crown'd,

He (mark it, lads!) to Maggie Lauder's house

Of all th' ambitious that for April sigh:
Nor sigh the young alone for Anster Fair;
Old men and wives, erewhile content to die,

That for Who hardly can forsake their easy-chair,

his spouse."

To take, abroad, farewell of sun and sky,
With new desire of life now glowing, pray
That they may just o'erlive our famous market-
day.

Nor e'er, before or since, the long-car'd brute
Was such a goodly acquisition thought.
The pipers vex'd their ears and pipes, t' invent
Some tune that might the taste of Anster Mag

content.

TAMMY LITTLE.

Wee Tammy Little, honest man!
I kent the body weel,
As round the kintra-side he gaed,
Careerin' wi' his creel.

He was sae slender and sae wee,

That aye when blasts did blaw,
He ballasted himself wi' stanes
'Gainst bein' blawn awa.

A meikle stane the wee bit man
In ilka coat-pouch clappit,
That by the michty gowlin' wind
He michtna doun be swappit.

When he did chance within a wood,
On simmer days to be,
Aye he was frichted lest the craws
Should heise him up on hie;

And aye he, wi' an aiken cud,

The air did thump and beat,
To stap the craws frae liftin' him

Up to their nests for meat.

Ae day, when in a barn he lay,

And thrashers thrang were thair,
He in a moment vanish'd aff,

And nae man could tell whair.

They lookit till the riggin' up,

And round and round they lookit,
At last they fand him underneath
A firlot cruyled and crookit.

Ance as big Samuel passed him by,
Big Samuel gave a sneeze,
And wi' the sough o't he was cast
Clean doun upon his knees.

His wife and he upon ane day
Did chance to disagree,