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If e'er ye try to speel the brae
When younkers differ on the green,
LETTER TO ALEXANDER GIBSON HUNTER, ESQ. No. 1, LOWER GUILDFORD STREET, London, 20th December 1805.
SIR,-Though now a stranger in the "Land of Cakes," the amor patriæ beats strong in my bosom,
and I feel the same degree of philanthropy towards my snuff-taking countrymen, as when we were wont to prime noses together. The comforts of your large and well-replenished horn, zested by your humorous and facetious conversation, are delightful to my recollection.
As a countryman and brother snuff-taker, I doubt not but that you will receive with pleasure any thing in praise of the all-powerful and never-enough-tobe-extolled plant. I therefore send you the following poem, which I received from a friend last New Year's day; and as it appears to me worthy of the subject to which it is dedicated, I think it a pity that it should be hid in obscurity, more especially as I am afraid there are many not sufficiently aware of the all-soothing comforts arising from "a cannie pinch o' snuff."
What would you think, therefore, of giving it a place in your very seful and much read Magazine next month, as a New Year's gift to all brother snuff-takers. Should you think proper to confer this honour upon it, it is at your service, from your sincere and obedient servant,
A BROTHER SNUFF-TAKER.
A Dialogue on the Virtues of Snuff.
Come, nibour Tam, we'll tak' a glass,
Sometimes a drap o' Fairntosh 1,5
The heart o' man can cheer!! Yet troth its naething o' itsel,
Though this be right gude stuff;
I wadna gi'e a button for't
Without a pinch o' snuff.
O' Burgundy, or bright Champaigne,
I wadna tak' a gallon o't
For a'e guid mull o' snuff.
Ye wadna weary, nibour Tam,
To roose the virtues o' this plant,
Weary!-dear man, that canna be,
I lo'e't sae weel, that ilka night
O' this braw plant I dream.
What's a' the med'cines that are taʼen,
An' doctors' puson'd stuff?
I wadna gi' a grain for ane,
'E'en o' the warst, o' snuff.
Didna the mirkie night come on,
Like Virgil's shepherds, we might sing,
They sang o' Philadas', and flames, i
Surely had honest Virgil kenn'd
There's Meg the wife's a dainty quean,
When saucily she cries, "Gudeman,
But, Tam, we e'en maun bide wi't a',
The sneeshen-mull we still maun ca',
Did nae she haunt me like a deil
It sweetens care at ilka hand,
Did snuff ne'er clear their brains?
Should I but ance, an weel, get there,
SCOTS MAG. 1806.
GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE IN DUBLIN-MR.
MR. COOKE, now thirty-eight years of age, and having been seventeen years a player, during many of which he stood forward as the hero of the pro