Gin a body greet a body,
Need a body frown?
Ev'ry lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, hae I!

Yet a' the lads they smile at me,
When comin' thro' the rye.

Amang the train there is a swain

I dearly lo'e mysel';

But whaur his hame, or what his name,
I dinna care to tell.

THE WHISTLE.

A BALLAD.

As the authentic prose history of "The Whistle" is curious, I shall here give it.

In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James VI, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table; and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germary; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority.

After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days, and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

"And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill."

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before-mentioned, afterwards lost the

Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.

On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honors of the field.

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall
"This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, sir! or ne'er see me more

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd,
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.

See Ossian's Caric-thura.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw,
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe or his friend,
Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;

A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;

See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phœbus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles apiece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the e warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high ruling Elder, to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend? Tho' fate said a hero should perish in light;

So up rose bright Phœbus — and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:
"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink;
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come

one bottle more- and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

JOHN BARLEYCORN.*

A BALLAD.

THERE went three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,

When he grew wan and pale,

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the

same name.