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ney--but I do not value him a hand- the 29th, I shifted my flag to Myro's ful of turf. I am more annoyed at Wood, where I still continue. The the news which I see in last night's pa- house is full of company, and we are per, that Blarney Castle is going to the all as gay as larks. I wrote my last hammer, and that the breach old Noll canto in half an hour before dinner, made in its battlements, will be no- in a room full of people, which is not thing to the gutting it will receive in to be done by your every-day bards. I consequence of the assault of the auc- read it in the course of the evening, tioneer. This is an unkind cut indeed, and it was voted to be a singularly but I hope the new purchaser will be wild original and beautiful poem," as a man of soul. On the 27th, I seized Lord Byron says of Christabel. Lord my gun-buckled on my shot-pouch Bantry was quite flattered that the and powder-horn, whistled to my dogs, scene of so fine a lay should be placed - (I back Sheelah against any pointer in on his estate, and invited me to spend the county,) and set forward to look a month with him. I am beginning to for a covey of partridges. I found it think the Leg of Mutton School of shot seven-but made a better hit on Poetry is the only one which is worth my return-for I met the hospitable the attention of a true poet. Its prinLord of Barley-hill-one of the fairest ciples are really invariable. I shall confellows in the West-country. I dined . sult Aristotle to see what he says about with him-slept athis house--and next it, for I have a great mind to join the morning had a fine dash at a fox, with corps. On the 30th, we enjoyed a fine his famous pack. We found in high cruize in the Lord Exmouth, a noble style, and he led us a chase of about yacht, and fitted up in great style. My sixteen miles. I cannot say that I came noble host is a prime seaman, and hanin for the brush, being, through some dles the rudder well; he cruized round accident, thrown out rather early. I the harbour till dinner time, and took attributed this to my late illness, for a few fish on our way–returned at six, Donnelly was in prime order. But just in ripe order for the venison.though not distinguished at the hunt, This is the last entry in my Journal; I flatter myself I distinguished myself for these last two days I have been too after dinner, by putting every man un- busy to write any thing; and, besides, der the table, and retiring with head I hear the dinner bell. unhurt, at three next morning. On

* We must interpose onr authority to prevent this dispute between our contributors going any farther. There should be peace and good will between our men.-C. N.


The yellow leaf has fall'n,

But a' because I see no more, And the stubble braes are brown,

By bower or burn, or brae, The mountain burns are roaring,

The rosy look and the cheerful eye, And the swallows a' are flown ;

That sunn'd my summer day, The school-boy with his fellows,

The fairest face that e'er I saw, Cowers in aneath the lea,

Lies with the gather'd flowers, And wide and wild o'er the bleak dry The leelest friends that e'er I knew, land,

Are gone like sunny hours. Flies the grey gull frae the sea.

The foreign turf in a far far land, But its no that summer's fled the bower, Grows o'er my brother's tomb,

Nor the stubble fields are brown, My sister dear that lov'd me best, Nor for the hill-burns roaring,

Sits in a foreign home. And a' the birds that's flown,

And low beneath yon lone grave stone Nor yet to see the schoolboys

My kindly father sleeps,
Stand cowering in the lea,

And all alorie in yon sad bower,
That my weary heart is press'd with dule, My widow mother weeps.
And the tear is in my ee.

O ye may fill the cheery bowl,

And troll the catch and glee,
And spare na of your merry wine,

And merry ye may be ;
But no a song that e'er was sung,

Nor bowl of merry wine,
Can cure the pain that's in my breast,
The pain, Ò Time! that's thine.

G. B.

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On Cheese, Civilization, North Country Ballads, fc. [We had, as Hamlet says, after our usual custom in the afternoon, seated ourselves, as majestically as our gout would permit, in our arm chair of state, to ruminate

upon a

little article, which we intend shall be cayenne to the palate 13 of the public. Somehow or other, we were a little misty, and the struggle to

screw our ideas to the sticking place” ended, as such attempts sometimes do after dinner, in that state of quiescent pleasure, beyond the reach of opium, during which we read an almanack, or a newspaper nine days old, always returning to the top of the page, to save the troublesome duty of turning over the

leaf. Our quiescence, however, was suddenly interrupted by one of those itei nerant bands of musicians who play, after dusk, about the streets of our own

"good town.” As it happened, they struck up, within twenty yards of our window, a little simple air, which, deep as we are in Scottish and Irish melody, was entirely new to us. It struck through us with a thrill like the discovery

of a new sense. We hobbled to the window, laid our ear to the pane, although 1. a sharp current of air blew into our neck through a crevice in the sash, and drank until the liquid eloquence of the melody was drained to the last drop. We had hobbled back again to our fire-side, with a strong feeling of enthusiasm, and a chilliness about the small of our back, and had just swallowed a bumper of claret, by way of corrective, when the following letter was handed in. We have a good deal of respect at bottom, for old Shufflebotham, though he is sometimes given to prosing, and we were just in the humour for him. Indeed, the old fellow never writes so passably as when he is not, as he calls it,

upon his Ps and Qs," a state which inevitably renders him marvellously absurd and formal. We accordingly made up our mind to keep our little Crystal of Merum Sal, as a gem for the concluding number of this volume, and to insert the old boy's letter just as it was, “in puris naturalibus;" and we hereby give warning, that no one need read it unless he be as we were, in what philosophers call “a state of negative electricity.”

C. N.] TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ, DEAR AND HONOURED SIR, blish a well-charactered cheese, and I dare say you'll be thinking that this, when done, not only betokens old Shufflebotham has fairly forgotten the improvement of the dairy, but you ; but I've only been out a brace of likewise of the taste of the country weeks, from a bout of my old com- round about, which encourages it. As plaint, at which- as we've had our for the ballads, Dinah says you only turn for the muggyweather-you'll not encourage me in my whims and nonwonder. I reckon, that on the rheu. sense ; but nobody shall persuade me matic score, you and I are much of a that they are not a barometer of the muchness. I did not like very well refined part of the manners of a disto write neither, till I had the ewe- trict, just as the stocks in London are milk cheese to send ; and if you have of the wealth that's passing from one been thinking it long in coming, the to another. I've heard you say that fault is neither mine, nor Dinah's, nor yourself. There's nobody knows, Mr Ralph Hepple's, who says he left it North, but people who have a natural for Dickinson three weeks ago. It's feeling for these sort of things, what to be hoped you'll think we are im- a hold some of them take of the ima. proving in the manufacture ; and, ginations of us country-folk, who have doubtless, the improvement of all never been debauched by living in the sorts of cheese is a proof of the agri- smoke, and bustle, and finery of towns, cultural progress of a countryside, as as these conceited Londoners do, that at were, just as ballads are of the men- ye're so hard upon, though, after all, tal. It requires a handing down, as I some of them are clever chiels too; but may say, from father to son, to estas that's neither here nor there; you your



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self would hardly believe, on a time, lady had left the door ajar, as she was what pleasure a body like me takes in righting the table and setting me down looking over an old thumbed “Ballant- a warm glass of rum and water, and book.” Roger sometimes brings one Roger a sup of ale, when a callant-in in from some of the hind-folk; and the kitchen began that song I've heard what a pleasant sensation the very ye admire, Mr North,—at least when sight of the poor awkward-looking your cherry-cheeked favourite, as ye cuts, and the worse doggrel, which used to call her, poor little Thomasine minds one of young days, can afford. Charlton sang it.--" He's far ayont The view of the “ King and the Co- the hills the night, but he'll be here bler,” the "

Young Man's Garland,” for a' that.” The lad lilted well, and “ Robin Hood,” with their queer there's a charm even in the worst of scrawls of men in odd hats, and broad these simple ballads, when sung with tailed coats, upon chequered pave- feeling and a clear voice. I know that ments, or amongst scrubby trees, most of the tunes I hear about our brings up many a sweet dreamy recole, onstead, are far behind your real Scotlection.

tish airs—for Scotland and Ireland af, But we are wonderfully improved ter all are the lands of song ; but still

; since these times. Burns and Bewick, they have a swatch of feeling about as I sometimes say, have been the great them, poor ditties though they be, and reformers, the Luther and Calvin both you may call them, if you like, a sort of of the souls and bodies of the “bal- half way house between your soul-stirlants.” If you give a halfpenny to the ring melodies and the fond modern lads now, they'll bring you in a neat things one gets deaved with, when leaf, with may be one of Burns's best one's fool enough to patronize, as they songs, or

some other, marvellously call it, the players at a race or assize smoothed down, since the sixteenth time. However, as I was saying, the of May” used to be a crack song in lad sung gaily-" Whisht,” says I to every ale-house. And for cuts, may Roger,“ set the door open, shut thy be a gay decent imitation of one of mouth, and cock thy lugs, for the life Bewick's best tail-pieces, with the of thee-here's something to stop a beasts and birds looking something like gap with;" and accordingly they soon Christians; for before his time one gave us another specimen. Both words never knew what they were. But you'll and tune were new to me and the last wonder what has put all this ballad- appeared to be Irish ; but to my judgsinging into my head; and I should ment, though I'm what your scientihave told you before-however, I must fical folk would call no judge at all

, begin at the beginning.- I went the I've heard worse stuff. Not that I other day to bring my nephew Roger would name it in the same day with home from school, which he was obli- your friend Mr Hogg, or Mr Cunninggated to leave on account of a fever ham, or Dr Scott, or Mr Jennings; that had got among them; and a speat but still, what with the fine feeling of

; of rain coming down the river, we the ditty, and what with the simplicistopped at 0- to give the beasts ty of the ballad, it went down. a feed till the wet was over. The land1.

Though I must go to a foreign land, I've been in many a foreign land,
And wait my leader's stern command; By many a dangerous reef and sand;
Although my breast I must oppose

I've heard the Baltic billows roar
Unto my country's hostile foes,

Among the mists of Elsinore; The stormy seas the battle's roar,

But wheresoe'er he's forced to roam, Shall never make my bosom sore,

A jolly sailor's still at home,If Nancy takes me by the hand,

Till Nancy takes him by the hand, Before I go to a foreign land.

Even England is a foreign land.

3. Though I must go to a foreign land, The hour-glass shall run out its sand, However distant be the clime, Her William will come home in time; Abroad, at home, where'er I be, My Nancy there shall sail with me; And when she takes me by the hand, I'll think no place a foreign land.

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When he ended, some observations mannerism, yet with a vein of unexseemed to be making, probably of the pected feeling. It embodies, in a faint sentimental sort, in their homely fa- degree, that mixture of passions, which shion; but you would have been plea- is the top of what you call musical exsed with the bold way in which the pression, and which is so wonderful in singer, who had really a fine manage your Scottish air of “ Dinna think,"

able voice, broke in with an air that where bitterness and love, grief and ' has been familiar to me ever since I contempt, mix and get the better of

was “penny-can-high,” as the saying one another, as the colours do on a bit is, but of which I never was aware of of shot-silk. The lad gave the emphathe merit till now. I have forgot what tic places a touch of sarcasm half plainwe used to call it, but it goes now by tive, half playful, particularly at the

the title of “My Love is newly listed.” conclusion, and seemed to feel the in1 It is just one of those ditties which Gay tention of the tune in a way that

would have putinto the Beggar's Opera, pleased me mightily. -monotonous, yet original,- full of

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0, the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing ;
And the corn it ripens fastest when the frosts are setting in ;
And when a woman tells me that my face she'll soon forget,
Before we part, I wad a crown, she's fain to follow 't yet.

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The snow it melts the soonest when the wind begins to sing ;
And the swallow skims without a thought as long as it is spring;
But when spring goes, and winter blows, iny lass, an ye'll be fain,
For all your pride, to follow me, were 't cross the stormy main.

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0, the snow it melts the soonest when the wind begins to sing ;
The bee that flew when summer shined, in winter cannot sting ;-
I've seen a woman's anger melt between the night and morn,
And it's surely not a harder thing to tame a woman's scorn.

4. 0, never say me farewell here—no farewell I'll receive, For you shall set me to the stile, and kiss and take your leave; But I'll stay here till the woodcock comes, and the martlet takes his wing, Since the snow aye melts the soonest, lass, when the wind begins to sing.

The next was an even-down ballad both in words and music; and, in its noble contempt of mood, tense, person, and propriety in general, might almost vie with the verse I have known you quote, Mr North, from the old ditty of Lord Derwentwater.

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“ Macintosh was a gallant soldier,
He carried his musket on his shoulder ;-
Cock your pistols and draw your rapier,

And damn you, Forster, for you're a traytor.”
Still, to my silly old notion, there was something redeeming about it.

0, I'll cut off my yellow hair,

But when the battle's over,
A musket give to me,

Then soldiers will be gay,
And wheresoe'er thou goest, there, And if I prove'a rover,
My love, I'll follow thee;

What will my Nancy say ?
And when our foes we must engage

If then another win your heart,
Upon some foreign strand,

What will your Nancy do ?
Howe'er the bloody battle rage,

She'll only weep, and stand apart,
I'll stand at thy right hand.

And hear her talk with you.

3 K


Thou hast my heart, so take my hand

My hand I give to thee,
And not again be sure that hand

Another's e'er shall be.
And should my lovely Nancy share

The battle by my side,
The Power above that hears our prayer,

Would shield the soldier's bride. Here the landlady made such a clatter with plates and dishes, that for a minute or two I could hear nothing. When the noise and dirdum had slackened a little, I could just hear a weak voice lilting carelessly a little air that, under many varieties, is common in Northumberland

Your spinsters and your knitters in the sun,
And those free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chaunt it-it is silly, sooth. Like most ballads, however, its vulgarity has a touch of the plaintive. I could only make out

0! the weary cutters—they've ta’en my laddie frae me,
0! the weary cutters--they've ta’en my laddie frae me;
They've press’d him far away foreign, with Nelson ayont the salt sea.

0! the weary cutters--they've ta’en my laddie frae me. You may think I was contented with this specimen, and as the noise continued, Roger made an errand into the kitchen to try to procure me some copies of the songs. Meanwhile a sprightly voice struck up, and in an interval I discovered that a fishing song was the order of the day. I could not collect the first stanza--the second ran thus : Nae mair we'll fish the coolly Tyne,

But we'll away to Coquetside, Nae mair the oozy Team,

For Coquet bangs them a',
Nae mair we'll try the sedgy Pont, Whose winding streams sae sweetly glide,
Or Derwent's woody stream ;

By Brinkburn's bonny Ha',
In the next stanza that I heard, the spirit of the song had changedl.
At Weldon brigg there's wale o' wine,

If ye hae coin in pocket ;
If ye can thraw a heckle fine,

There's wale o' trouts in Coquet.
And we will quaff the red-blood wire, And O! in all their angling bouts,
Till Weldon's wa's shall reel,-

On Coquet, Tyne, or Reed,
We'll drink success to hook and line, Whether for maidens or for trouts,
And a' wha bear the creel.

May anglers still succeed.
By Till, or Coquet, Tyne, or Reed,

In sunshine, or in rain,
May fisher ne'er put foot in stream,

Or hand in purse in vain.
Then luck be to the angler lads,

Luck to the rod and line ;
Wi' morn's first beam, we'll wade the stream,

The night we'll wet with wine. The chorus at the end of the third stanza seemed to be more noisy than the rest. When Roger came in, he told me that when he went in he found a palefaced lad, in a blue jacket, blue stockings, and red garters, trolling the simple chant I mentioned. The fishing song, Roger said, was sung by a “ betterly looking” young man, in a shooting dress. He willingly shewed Roger a copy of the song, but would not part with it. It was printed in better taste than ordinary, with a tail-piece of Bewick's at the top, and the initials of the author of the “ Reed Water Minstrel” at the bottom. The sentimental now seemed to have given way to the comic; but by this time the day had cleared up, so we only heard a fellow with an Irish twang and a portion of sly humour, sing a verse or two to the tune of “ The Pretty Maid of Derby, 0,” which you say


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