Maggy's weel-kent tongue and hurry, " Nasty, gude-for-naething being! "O ye snuffy, drucken sow! Bringan wife and weans to ruin, "Drinkin' here wi' sic a crew! "Devil nor your legs war broken! "Sic a life nae flesh endures"Toilan like a slave, to sloken, 'You, ye dyvor, and your 'hores ! "Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel ! "Drink's your night and day's desire: "Rise this precious hour! or faith I'll Fling your whisky i' the fire!" 66 Watty heard her tongue unhallowt, Fowk frae every door cam' lampin', Hame, at length, she turn'd the gavel, Ragin' like a very devil, Kickin' stools and chairs about. "Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round you, "Hang you, Sir, I'll be your death, "Little hauds my hauns, confound you, "But I cleave you to the teeth." Watty, wha midst this oration Sad his wee drap brose he sippet, "Nane are free frae some vexation, A' night lang he rowt and gauntet, Soon as e'er the morning peepet, Fareweel, Meg. And, oh may Heav'n Keep you aye within his care: "Watty's heart ye've lang been grievin', 'Now he'll never fash you mair. Happy could I been beside you, Happy baith at morn and e'en: 'A' the ills did e'er betide you, 'Watty aye turn't out your frien'. 'But ye ever like to see me "Vext and sighan, late and air. 'Fareweel, Meg! I've sworn to lea' thee, So thou'll never see me mair,' Meg, a' sabban, sae to lose him, 'O my Watty, will ye lea' me, Ay, ye've aft said that, and broken 'No, no, Meg! See-there's a token, 'Owre the seas I march this morning, Then poor Maggy's tears and clamour, Thro' the yirth I'll waunner wi' you- 'See your poor young lammies pleadin', 'Will ye gang and break our heart? 'No a house to put our head in, 'No a frien' to tak' our part. Ilka word came like a bullet; "If ance mair I could by writing, "Then" quo' Watty, " mind, be honest: "Gin ye break this dreadfu' promise, "Never mair expect to thrive. r Marget Howe! this hour ye solemn "Swear by every thing that's gude, "Ne'er again your spouse to scal' him, "While life warms your heart and blood. "That ye'll ne'er in Mungo's seek me,— "Never gloom when I come hame. "That ye'll ne'er, like Bessy Miller, "Kick my shins, or rug my hair"Lastly, I'm to keep the siller. "This upo' your saul ye swear?" "O-h!" quo' Meg, " Aweel," quo' Watty, "Fareweel! faith I'll try the seas." "O stan' still,” quo' Meg, and grat aye; Ony, ony way ye please." Maggy syne, because he prest her, Down he threw his staff victorious; The foregoing admirable Ballad, is the work of the late Alexander Wilson, a native of Paisley, and the celebrated author of American Ornithology, perhaps the most splendid and valuable work that ever issued from the American press. He is likewise author of a volume of Poems, written, partly during his peregrinations through his native country, in the vocation of a pedlar or travelling merchant, and partly after he had settled in America, where he died, in 1813, aged 48 years. He appears to have been a most accurate observer of Nature, and his descriptions have an almost unrivalled fidelity; but they are, for the most part, taken from low life, and pretty generally coarse and vulgar. This, in all probability, was the effect of his circumstances; for though a pedlar's life may afford very ample and very suitable materials for poetry, as it certainly does, if any credit be due to the author of The Excursion, it is scarcely possible to conceive any thing more unsuitable for a poet. I do not allude merely to the circumstance of pedlars being only a sort of privileged beggars, for the poets have, or would gladly have been so, at least since the days of Homer. The poet, however, has the power of chusing his time to make the attack, and generally contrives to do it so as to secure at least a civil denial; while the poor pedlar, plodding from house to house, as accident leads or chance directs, frequently has the misfortune to break in upon family privacy, at the worst time imaginable. Perhaps the door has just been closed to keep in a yet unwonted kitten, which, as he attempts to enter, makes its escape with the lightning's speed, through between his legs. Perhaps the young laird has just been laid up in his cradle for. his forenoon nap, and the gudewife is busy preparing her kail pot, when the noisy salutation, which colley has been taught to consider it his duty to bestow on pedlars and beggars without distinction, breaks the bairn's sleep and the mother's temper at the same time-perhaps she has forgot the barring o' the door, and has just sat down to her nice tiddy bit twalhours' bite, whilk nae mortal, it was hoped, wad either see or hear o', when his rude hand upon the sneck, makes her jump at once out of a week's growth, and lose the best part of her dainty, by gulping it at the hazard of her life, or throwing it into the ashpit to escape detection; in any of which cases, he is, for the most part, sure of a welcome, such as nothing but a head of lead, or a heart of stone, could, for any length of time, bear up under. That poor Wilson felt keenly the disadvantages of his situation, we have in more instances than one his own direct testimony. It fires, it boils my vera blude, To think how aft I'm putten wud, Out springs the mastiff, through the mud, With fell Cerberian roar, And growling, as he really would Me instantly devour Alive that day. "Ye're come frae Glasco', lad, I true;" Ye'll be a Malefactor too, Ye'll hae your horse and grooms. What de'il brings siccan chaps as you, Wi' Beggars, Packmen, and sic crew, The live-lang day." |