With melting heart, and brimful eye, II. Oft have I met your social band, And spent the chearful, festive night: Which none but craftsmen ever saw! III. May freedom, harmony, and love, And you IV. farewell! whose merits claim, SONG. Tane, "Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly." No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No sly man of business contriving a snare, IL. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; III. Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse; There centum per centum, the eit with his purse; But see you the crown how it waves in the air, There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. IV. The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die ; V. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; VI. "Life's cares they are comforts"-a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown: And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair; A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, Young's Night Thoughts. SONG. Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, THE WHISTLE. A BALLAD. As the authentic prose history of the whistle is curious, I shall here give it.-In the train of Ann of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table; and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany: and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots. the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table. And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's-On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field. I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, I sing of a whistle, the pride of the north, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall"This whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, sir! or ne'er see me more!" Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell; The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 'Till Robert, the lord of the eairn and the scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, See Ossian's Caric-thura. He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; 'Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; "By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, "I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More", "And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend, Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field, And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield. To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; See Johnson's tour to the Hebrides. |