Gin a body greet a body, Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, Yet a' the lads they smile at me, When comin' thro' the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e mysel'; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. THE WHISTLE. A BALLAD. As the authentic prose history of "The Whistle" is curious, I shal here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James VI., there came over also a Danish gentleman cf 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 Germary; and chailenged 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 al 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 Ferguson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Rob ert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honors of the field, I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, Old Loda* still rueing the arm of Fingal, Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, See Ossian's Caric-thura. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw, Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, "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, To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply, * See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; Six bottles apiece had well wore out the night, Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; and down fell the knight Next up rose our Bard, like a prophet in drink : ; "Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce. So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; JOHN BARLEYCORN.* A BALLAD. THERE vent three kings into the east, They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall, John Barleycorn got up again, The sultry suns of summer came, The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale, His bending joints and drooping head * This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name. |