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An Apothecary's Sign.-A Preacher.-Irish Wit.-Names-Conscience.
An Apothecary's Sign.,
If any sick to me apply,
1 physic, bleeds an'sweats 'em :
If after that they chuse to die,
What's that to me?-1. LETSUM.
A Preacher.-A wit said of a certain Preacher who was forced to hide for debt, “ Six days he is invisible, and on Sunday he is incomprehensible
Irish Wit.-An Irish peasant was carried before a Magistrate, charged with stealing a Sheep; the property of Sir Garret Fitzmaurice. The Justice asked him if he could read, to which he answeredl, A little. You could not be ignorant then, said the Justice, that the sheep found in your possession, belonged to Sir Garrett, as his brand, G. F. M. was on it. True, replied. the prisoner, bưrt. I took them to mean. Good Fat Mutton.
Names. The following humorous instance of the capricious applications of names, occurs in one of the late South Carolina Gazettes:- Run away from Ephraim Mercy, at the Fall, two Negro men, viz. Alexander and Plato, both branded on the thigh with the letter R. There is great reason to believe they have been enticed away, as Alexander is remarkably timorous, and Plato very dull and stupid ; so that any person who may
hara. bour or employ thein will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour, by Ephrain Mercy.
Conscience-An Indian being among his white neighbours, asked for a little tobacco to smoke; one of them
gave handful. The following day the Indian came back, inquiring for the donor, saying he had found a quarter of a dollar among the tobacco. Being told that it was given him, he might keep it; he answered, pointing to his breast, ' I got a good man here, and the good man say, it an't mine; I must return it to the 'I'he bad man say,
you, own now; the good man say, that not right, the tobacco is yours, not the money: the bad man say, never mind, you got it, go buy some dram; the good man say, no, no, you must not do so: so I don't know what to do, and I think I go to sleep; but the good man and the bad man keep talking all night, and trouble me, and now I bring the money back, I feel good.
On Albyn's mist-clad hills of grey
The hosts of Rome, in olden day,
Gleam'd bright, beneath the unconscious ray,
That smiled upon their victory.
On Albyn's steeps of strength, unfurled
Her banners márk'd a conquered world;
And in the wild breeze gayly curl'd
The badge of proud supremacy.
On Albyn's rocks the haughty tow'r
Told far and wide her giant pow'r,
Or hung in rude defying low'r
To fix a nation's slavery.
Where now the hosts that sparkling gleam'd?
The banner where, that gayly stream'd ?
And where the tower, that proudly seem'd
To look to heaven in rivalry.
Low sleep the mighty men of yore
Beneath the cairnies on our shore;
The flickering banner waves no more
O'er pride of Roman chivalry..
And where the lofty turrets rose
Of Caledonia's scowling foes,
No stone is left--the thistle grows
Where stood their proud security.
Land of the Brave! oh, could it be,
That thou should'st brook Rome's tyranny!
And must a soil that aye was free,
Crouch to a servile enemy!
No! she may spread her fierce control
Far as the waves of ocean roll,
But ne'er shall crush thy lion soul
Thy freedom is eternity.
A blind and aged minstrel swell d aloud,
Upon his pibroch, the alternate, strain ;
The battle's conflict, and the triumph proud;
The gory fields clad o'er with thousands slain;
Nor were his bold, though humble, efforts vain,
For at his will the slumb'ring passions rise,
And well he could their madd’ning force restrain ;
Draw tears of pity from the brightest eyes,
And cause the heart to thrill, and thrill again,
Through ev'ry. village, ev'ry borough town,
This aged minstrel took his weary way,
All Scotland wide he travers'd up and down,
Well known by tartans bright, his chief array,
And on his pipes he merrily would play,
And bring to view the scenes of other years,
The bold achievements of a distant day,
The glorious vaļour of our fam'd forbears;
Thus would he pour the soul-ennobling lay.
Ort have I seen him on the crowded street,
Raising the battle notes terrific strong,
Pouring the martial strains melodious sweet,
The lofty numbers of heroic song,
Surrounded by the eager list’ning throng,
Whose hearts would beat responsive to the sound,
As wildly sweet it stole their ranks among,
And still increasing numbers gather'd round,
As lane, or street, he piping walk'd along.
At annual fair, whence swells the noisy hum
From crowded street, chok'd up with merchandise
Of every sort; where countless numbers come
To traffic various, and the bawling cries
Of huster, and of showman, rend the skies,
Enliv’ning all the animated scene
Here too, the pibroch's boldest notes arise,
For wand'ring 'mid the crowd the piper's seen;
While pendant ribbon oe'r his shoulder flies..
Of late I saw the venerable sire
Along the crowded street, go wandering;
Melting to woe, or kindling into fire,
As mem'ry former scenes to view would brings
To rause the soul, or touch the tend'rest string
Of sympathy that vibrates to the heart,
He made the air with pleasing echoes ring;
He swell’d his numbers, with the noblest art,
Sweeter than music from the voice of spring
Engaged in other game the multitude;
None gather'd round the thrilling strains to hear,
Save one, close by a gallant hero stood
Unmindful of the noise, and bustle near ;
He lists, delighted, with attentive ear,
And as the strains uninterrupted flow'd,
He thought on scenes to him forever dear,
With extasy his manly bosom glow'd,
While o'er his cheek fell the unbidden tear..
And as the bold and stormy notes arose,
With sweetest melody and lofty swell,
It sounds to him, destruction of his foes,
But too, it wakes his comrades fun'ral knell.
That martiat tune makes him remember well:
That bloody day when suck ennobling strains
Rous'd up the spirits of the brave who fell,
And drench'd in carnage the ensanguin'd plains;
And obi! 'tis to his heart as magic spell.
And when is stopp'd the spirit stirring sound,
Again he bids the aged piper play,
Stands on tiptoe and proudly looks around;
For sweet the memory of such a day,
When brought to mind, the host in bright array,
The noise and bustle of the-embattl'd field,
The dark’ning bands that meet in awful fray,
Where Britain triumphs, and her foemen yield;
And all their legions proud are swept away,«
And when he pours the measure sad and slow,
The hero's dire lament, and fun'ral wail,
The dirge note wakes, and swells the voice of woe
And mournful sounds reverborate on the gale;
Ah, then, his manly heart is like to fail,
For oh! that sweetly melting solemn strain
Thrills to his heart the pangs of sorrow real,
For he remembers friends and comrades slain,
Wrapt in their shrouds of death, gory and pale.
Whose bosom swells not with exulting pride,
In contemplation of such noble sight,
To see the hero by, the piper's side,
List’ning to martial strains with true delight
As if transported to the bloody fight,
Performs his deeds of war and valour o’ér;
Cuts through the thick’ning ranks of legions brighte
Where cries of death are drawn by cannon roar,
And countless numbers sink to endless night.
O Scotia ! may that fervent wish be heard,
That once was proffer'd up for thee and thine,
By thy immortal son, the rustic bard,
Who sung a sweet and nobler lay than mine;
With him I would my earnest prayers join,
That still the minstrel and the patriot sage,
Inspired, may rise in long continued
Thy ornament and guard through every age;.
And in their native worth illustrious shine.
GLASGOW, 20th Dec. 1818..