TICKLER.

They found the organ of punch-drinking very large, which tends, more than any other fact I have ever heard, to prove the truth of their wise science.

Oh! the asses—if they found it somewhere under my gullet, they would be nearer the mark.-But come, here they go !-(sings.)

I.
Of all the asses in the town,

None's like the Phreno-lógers,-
They sport a braver length of ears

Than all the other codgers.
There's not a jackass in the land

Can bray so true and sweetly,
Nor prove a turnip is a head

As wise as theirs completely.

II.
'Tis they who write in learned words,

By no means long or braggart;
'Tis they who proved no saint e'er lived,

If none was Davie Haggart.
For Davie is a favourite name

Among our northern witches ;-
Twas David Welsh who made the club,

Along with David Breeches. I meant to say Bridges, but I could not think of a rhyme. Davie, who is an excellent fellow in all other respects, is turned phrenologer, and has an interesting paper on a young thief of his acquaintance, in the Idiot Transactions, which is quite edifying to read.

III.
They prove that Chalmers' pate across

Is half a foot and over ;
Whereas in Joseph Hume, M. P.,

An inch less they discover :
And therefore they declare the one

A most poetic prancer,
While Joseph they pronounce to be

No mighty necromancer.

Iy.
But Hume, you needna fash your thumb,

Nor stint your + smuggled bottle;-
Still prove in style that three and three

Make up fifteen in tottle.
For ev'n if what these wooden pates

Have tried to prove, were swallow'd,
Yet if it be a narrow skull,

Your head's a perfect solid.

V.
They proved from Whig Jack Thurtell's head,

That he was kind and gentle ;

* See Combe's letter to Dr Barclay.
+ Vide Hume's speech of the 12th inst.

And though too fond of cutting throats,

Yet still he never meant ill.
And now the seven-and-eighty wits,

To all our satisfactions,
Have shewn it takes no brains to print

A volume of transactions.

Shall I go on?

NORTH.
No-no-let the turnip tops rot in quiet. [Sings.]

The Doncaster Mayor, he sits in his chair-
His mills they merrily go-
His nose it doth shine with Oporto wine,

And the gout it is in his great toe. And so it is in mine too. Oh ! oh! O dear! what a cough I have ! heigh, heigh, heigh !-Come now, Tickler, one stave from your old mouse-trap, to conclude the ante-canal part of our symposium, for i hear the dishes ratiling below.

TICKLER sings, (a-la Matthews.)
Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window

Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump;
He begg'd for admittance

she answered him nom
Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump.
No, no, Roger, no-as you came ye my go-

Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump.
O what is the reason, dear Dolly, he cried-

Humpaty, humpaty, hump-
That thus I am cast off, and unkindly denied ?-

Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump-
Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here

Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump,
Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir?

Numpaty, numpaty, nump-
Wi' a disconsolate look, his sad farewell he took-

Frumpaty, frumpaty, frump-
And all in despair jump'd into a brook-

Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump-
His courage did cool in a filthy green pool-

Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump-
So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more-

Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump-
He did speedily find one more fat and more kind-

Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump-
But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid-
Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.

Enter Ambrose with his tail on : (Left eating.)

• The number of phrenologists in the club in Edinburgh.

Printed by James Ballantyne and Company, Edinburgh.

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

Vol. XV.

No. LXXXVII.

APRIL, 1824.

368 391 399 406 418 424 429 433

.

440 445

.

NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ. No. XIV.
LETTERS (POSTHUMOUS) OF CHARLES EDWARDS, Esq. No. II.
PUNISHMENTS IN THE ARMY,
BALLANTYNE'S NOVELIST'S LIBRARY,
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LUTHER'S BRIDAL,
BANDANA ON EMIGRATION. LETTER FIRST,
A RUNNING COMMENTARY ON THE RITTER BANN. A BALLAD.

By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.
KIDDYWINKLE HISTORY. No. I.
IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS OF LITERARY MEN AND SATESMEN.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, Esq.
ON CHURCHYARDS. Chapter I.

Chapter II.
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WORKS PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION,
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MONTHLY REGISTER.
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457 467 469 472 475 476 477 479

487 491

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SOLD ALSO BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS OF THE UNITED KINGDOM

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Erratum. In some copies, page 435, liue 13 of first column, for Waters',

ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΈΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ.
PHOC. ap. Ath.

[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,
An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days;
Meaning, ""TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINEBIBBING PEOPLE,

"NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE;
"BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."
An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis-
And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]

SCENE I.-Sky-Blue Parlour.

VOL. XV.

C. N. ap.

Ambr.

MR NORTH, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, AND MR AMBROSE.

NORTH.

Just so-just so, Mr Ambrose. No man sets a cushion with more gentle dexterity. As my heel sinks into the velvet, my toe forgets to twinge. Now, my dear St Ambrosio, for L'eau medicinal! (Mr Ambrose communicates a nutshell of Glenlivet, and exit.) Now, my dear Shepherd, let us have a handed crack."

66 twa

THE SHEPHERD.

What's the gout like, Mr North, sir? Is't like the stang o' a skep-bee? or a toothacky stoun? or a gumboil, when you touch't wi' het parritch? or a whitlow on ane's nose, thrab thrabbing a' the night through? or is't liker, in its ain way, till what ane drees after thretty miles o' a hard-trotting, barebacked beast, wi' thin breeks on ane's hurdies?

*

NORTH.

Gentle Shepherd, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

THE SHEPHERD.

Is'e warrant now, sir, that your big tae's as red as a rose in June.
VOL. XV.

3 B