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There spoke the poet-the author of the Queen's Wake. Mr Hogg, I am happy to know that you are about to give us a new poem, Queen Hynde. Is it very fine?


Faith, I'm thinking it's no muckle amiss. I've had great pleasure aye in the writing o't. The words came out, helter skelter, ane after the other, head to doup, like bees frae a hive on the first glimpse o' a sunny summer morn.


Again! Why, that is poetry, Mr Hogg.


Fie shame! That's just what Mr Jaffray said to Coleridge, when walking in the wud wi' him at Keswick-And yet what does he do a towmont or twa after, but abuse him and his genius baith, like ony tinkler, in the Enbro' Review. I canna say, Mr North, that I hate flattery, but, oh man! I fear't, and at the very time I swallow't, I keep an e'e on the tyke that administers the cordial.


Queen Hynde will do, James. Tales, tales, tales, eternal prose tales-out with a poem, James.-Your brose tales are but


What kind o' a pronounciation is that, man?


I seldom write verses myself, now-a-days, James, but as I have not bothered you much lately by spouting MSS., as I used to do long ago, pray, be so kind as to listen to me for a few stanzas.


HAIL, glorious dawning! hail, auspicious morn!
APRIL THE FIRST! grand festival, all hail!
My soaring Muse on goose-quill pinion born,

From that wide limbo, sung in Milton's tale,
Hastens to pay thee love and reverence due,
For thou to me a day most sacred art;
And I shall call around a jovial crew,

Who love and worship thee with single heart.
Come, crown'd in foolscap, rolling forth this lay,
Hail, mighty mother, hail !-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Which of you first shall press to shew your love-
To vail your bonnet to your patron saint?
I see you hasten from the earth above,

And sea below to pay your service quaint.
While black and grey in every livery deck'd

The stay-laced dandy, and the Belcher'd blood,
The grave divine of many a jangling sect

Lawyers and doctors, and the critic brood,
All singing out in concert, grave or gay,

Hail, mighty mother, hail !-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


March in the foremost rank-'tis yours by right

March, grenadiers of folly-march, my Whigs-
Hoist the old tatter'd standard to the light,

Grunting in chorus like Will Cobbett's pigs.
George Tierny holds it with unsteady paw,

Looking right hungry on the golden hill
Of Place and Power, from which his ravening maw
Hopes vainly for vittal its chinks to fill.

Dupe to himself he growls, but loud must say,

Hail, mighty mother, hail !-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!

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Of bloody gemmen of the Press had slain, And Wilson (once Sir Robert) hand in hand,

With Nugent lading of the Falmouth Wain, Joining right loudly in the grand huzza, Hail, mighty mother, hail !-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Wise Hutchinson, and wiser Peter Moore,
Great Holland, redolent of female fist;
Sir James, the faithful treasurer of the poor,

Mick Taylor, lord of cutlets and gin twist;
Frothy Grey Bennet, patron of the press,

Whose freedom is their toast in bumpers full, And which they shew, by crowding to caress

Fudge Tommy Moore, and actioning John Bull. Shout, my old Coke!-shout, Albemarle !-shout, Grey! Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Apt are the emblems which the party shews

Here's "Great Napoleon, victor over Spain," And "Wellington of war no science knows,"

And "Angouleme has touched his hilt in vain,"
And "We must perish if the gold's withdrawn,"
And "We must perish if the gold is paid,"
And "Chaste art thou, O Queen! as snow ere dawn,"
And "Princess Olive is an injured maid;"

But shining over all, in alt still say,

Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Close by their tails see Jeff's reviewers sneak
In buff and blue, an antiquated gang;
Jeffrey himself with penny trumpet squeak,

Chimes with Jackpudding Sydney's jews-harp twang;
Hallam is there with blood of Pindar wet,

And there Macculloch bellows, gallant stot,
And Christian Leslie, too, to whom is set

A bust of stone, in Stockbridge shady grot.
puppy chorus yelps the full array,


Hail, mighty mother, hail !—hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Still impudent their gestures-still their mien

Swaggers beneath the load of self-conceit;

Yet all in spite of vanity is seen

Graven on each brow disorder and defeat, Still BYRON'S canister too deftly tied,

Rings "kling-ling-ling," be-draggling at their tail; Still NORTH's stout cowhide to each back applied,

Makes even the stoutest of the crew to quail,

Yet boldly still they cry with brave hurra

Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Whom have we next-I note the gesture trim,
The throat unkerchiefed, and the jaunty air,
The yellow silk that wraps the nether limb,

And all the singing robes that poets wear-
Hail, Bohea-bibbing monarch of Cockaigne!

Who is more fit than thou to join the song
Of glory to Tom-foolery, the strain,

Thou and thy subject tribes have troll'd so long?
Shout o'er thy bumper'd dish, hip! hip! hurra!
Hail, mighty mother, hail !—hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


For the remainder of his rabble rout,

Their names I know not, nor desire to know.
For aught I care, each long-eared lubber lout
May march to Orcus on fantastic toe,
Save Barry Cornwall, milk-and-water bard,
Lord of the flunky clad in livery green!
To send so sweet a poet 'twere too hard,

To the chaise-percèe of old Pluto's queen.
No, here as Cockney-Laureat let him stay,

Singing, hail, mother, hail !-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day!


Make way, make way, in plenitude of paunch,
See London's learned livery waddling on.
Lord Waithman heads the rumpled avalanche,
Tailed by Teutamen's hero-Whittington!
Oh, Huckaback the Great, alike sublime,

In measuring speech or gingham by the ell,
Worthy alike of poet's lofty rhyme,

The stuff you utter, and the stuff you sell!
Sing with that voice which can e'en kings dismay,
Hail, mighty mother, hail !—hail, April ALL FOOLS' day!


That'll do-Ohe! jam satis. Iken naithing about tae halfo' the chiels, and the little I do ken about the lave is na worth kenning. But the verses sound weel, and seem fu' o' satire. They'll no be popular, though, about Ettrick.


I must occasionally consult the taste of the people in London, and the neighbouring villages. They are fond of their little local jeers, and attach mighty importance to men and things, that in the Forest, James, are considered in the light of their own native insignificance.


That's God's truth! In London you'll hear a soun', like laigh thunder, frae a million voices, growl-growling on ae subject, for aiblins a week thegither; a' else is clean forgotten, and the fate o' the world seems to hang on the matter in han' ;-but just wait you till the tips o' the horns o' the new moon hae sprouted, and the puir silly craturs recollec' naithing ava', either o' their ain fear, or their ain folly, and are aff on anither scent, as idle and thochtless as before. In the kintra, we are o' a wiser, and doucer, and dourer nature; we fasten our feelings rather on the durable hills, than on the fleeting cluds; tomorrow kens something about yesterday, and the fifty-twa weeks in the year dinna march by like isolated individuals; but like a company strongly mustered, and on an expedition or enterprize o' pith and moment.


So with books. In a city they are read-flung aside-and forgotten like the dead.


In the pure air o' the kintra, beuks hae an immortal life. I hae nae great leebrary-feck o't consists o'twenty volumes o' my ain writing ; but, oh! man, it is sweet to sit down, on a calm simmer evening, on a bit knowe, by the lochside, and let ane's mind gang daundering awa down the pages o' some volume o' genius, creating thochts alang with the author, till, at last, you dinna weel ken whilk o' you hae made the beuk. That's just the way I aften read your Magazine, till I could believe that I hae written every article-Noctes and a':








How did the Border games go off this Spring Meeting, Shepherd ?

The loupin' was gude, and the rinnin' was better, and the ba' was best. Oh, man ! that ye had been but there !

NORTH. What were the prizes?

Bunnets. Blue bunnets—I hae ane o' them in my pouch, that wasna gien awa'. There—try it on.

(The Shepherd puts the blue bonnet on Mr North's head.) I have seen the day, James, when I could have leaped any man in Ettrick.

A' but ane. The Flying Tailor wad hae been your match ony day. But there's nae denying you used to take awfu' spangs. Gude safe us, on springy meadow grun, rather on the decline, you were a verra grasshopper. But, wae's. methae crutches ! Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, labuntur anni !

Why, even yet, James, if it were not for this infernal gout here, I could leap any man living, at hop, step, and jump

Hech, sirs !_hech, sirs ! but the human mind's a strange thing, after a'! Here's

you, Mr North, the cleverest man, I'll say't to your face, noo extant, a scholar and a feelosopher, vauntin' o' your loupin'! That's a great wakeness. You should be thinkin' o'ither things, Mr North. But a' you grit men are perfet fules either in ae thing or anither.

NORTH. Come, James, my dear Hogg, draw your chair a little closer. We are a set of strange devils, I acknowledge, we human beings.

Only luk at the maist celebrated o us.—There's Byron, braggin' o' his soomin', just like yourself o' your loupin'. He inforins us that he swom through the streets of Venice, that are à canals, you ken-nae very decent proceeding—and keepit ploutering on the drumly waves for four hours and a half, like a wild guse, diving, too, Is'e warrant, wi' his tail, and treading water, and lying on the back o' him--wha' the deevil cares?

His lordship was, after all, but a sorry Leander ?

You may say that. To have been like Lander, he should hae swom the Strechts in a storm, and in black midnight, and a' by himself, without boats and gondolas to pick him up gin he tuk the cramp, and had a bonnie lass to dicht him dry,--and been drown'd at last—but that he'll never be.

You are too satirical, Hogg.

And there's Tammas Mure braggin' after anither fashion o' his exploits amang the lasses. O man, dinna you think it rather contemptible, to sit in a cotch wi'a bonnie thochtless lassie, for twa three lang stages, and then publish a "sang about it? I ance heard a gran' leddie frae London lauching till I thocht she would hae split her sides, at Thomas Little, as she ca’d him. I






could scarcely fadom her-but ye ken't by her face what she was thinking,and it was a quite right—a severe reproof.


Mr Coleridge? Is he in the habit, Hogg, of making the Public the confidents of his personal accomplishments?


I carna weel tell, for deevil the like o' sic books as his did I ever see wi' my een beneath the blessed licht. I'm no speakin' o' his Poems.-I'll aye roose them-but the Freen and the Lay Sermons are aneuch to drive ane to destraction. What's logic?


Upon my honour as a gentleman, I do not know; if I did, I would tell you with the greatest pleasure.


Weel, weel, Coleridge is aye accusing folk o' haeing nae logic. The want o' a' things is owing to the want o' logic, it seems. Noo, Mr North, gin logic be soun reasoning, and I jalouse as much, he has less o't himsel than onybody I ken, for he never sticks to the point twa pages; and to tell you the truth, I aye feel as I were fuddled after perusing Coleridge. Then he's aye speaking o' himsel-but what he says I never can mak out. Let him stick to his poetry, for, oh! man, he's an unyerthly writer, and gies Superstition sae beautifu' a countenance, that she wiles folk on wi' her, like so many bairns, into the flowery but fearfu' wildernesses, where sleeping and wauking seem a' ae thing, and the very soul within us wonders what has become o' the every-day warld, and asks hersel what creation is this that wavers and glimmers, and keeps up a bonnie wild musical sough, like that o' swarming bees, spring-startled birds, and the voice of a hundred streams, some wimpling awa' ower the Elysian meadows, and ithers roaring at a distance frae the clefts o' mount Abora. But is't true that they hae made him the Bishop of Barbadoes ?


No, he is only Dean of Highgate. I long for his "Wanderings of Cain," about to be published by Taylor and Hessey. That house has given us some excellent things of late. They are spirited publishers. But why did not Coleridge speak to Blackwood? I suppose he could not tell, if he were questioned.


In my opinion, sir, the bishops o' the Wast Indies should be blacks.


Prudence, James, prudence,—we are alone to be sure, but the affairs of the West Indies


The bishops o' the Wast Indies should be blacks. Naebody 'll ever mak me think itherwise. Mr Wilberforce, and Mr M'Auley, and Mr Brougham, and a' the ither Saints, have tell't us that blacks are equal to whites; and gin that be true, make bishops o' them-What for no?


James, you are a consistent poet, philosopher, and philanthropist. Pray, how would you like to marry a black woman? How would Mr Wilberforce like it?


I canna answer for Mr Wilberforce; but as for myself, I scunner at the bare idea.


Why, a black skin, thick lips, grizzly hair, long heels, and convex shinsWhat can be more delightful?-But, to be serious, James, do you think there is no difference between black and white?


You're drawing me into an argument about the Wast Indies, and the neegars. I ken naething about it. I hate slavery as an abstract idea-but it's a necessary evil, and I canna believe a' thae stories about cruelty. There's nae fun or amusement in whipping women to death-and as for a skelp or twa, what's the harm?-Hand me ower the rum and the sugar, sir,

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