Cannlemas, this year, when I took a ferly into my head to come out and see what sort o' folk they're in America; we ca them yankies in our part o' the kintra, but some o' your carles here, say that they're only a wee wheen o' them yankies, and that they laive like a sill to get that name, as I would to be called a sneckdrawer. Weel, as I was saying, I thocht I would come out and see what sort o' chaps ye're here, and soe I've gaen a gude deal about amang ye, and I've seen mair than the king kens o'. Maybe ye would like to ken what I think o'ye, but weel I wat ye think aneuch o' yoursells, and I'se warrand it'll be as safe to keep a caum sugh till I get hame, for ye ken a cock craws crouse on its ain midden head, and it's no cannie to sit in Rome and feght wi' the pope. And if I was to say oni thing that did na juist please ye, naebody kens but ye might put me in that auld grusome lenking Talbuith, ye ca' the State's Prison, to shoo breeks, or to mend shoon, or some ither daft like occupation, and then I trow I wud woss I was at hame, casting peats, or howkin potawtos in my auld Grannie's kail yard. Sae I wunna e'en whussle the Soo and Geordie, for fear your corporation wud think I was makin a fule of them for keeping grumphies to soop the causey, and sae had me through the whuns for it. Sae I'll say naething ava about thae kittle things, but I want to hae juist twa words wi' some of my ain breethren here, the Scotsmen, as they ca' themsells. I heard an unco rippit made about what a nice haudlin they were ga'n to hae on Saint Andro's day; and a hantil o' them said that as I was a Scotsman, I maun come and tak my kail wi' them. Weel, I thocht there was'na muckle harm in't, though it was unco dear to gie five dollars for juist a waimfu'; its mair nor thretten punds Scots, and I'm sure I could get a gude dinner in Luckie Mc Leery's, in the Gallowgate, for muckle less siller, forbye a drap gude drink to the bargain. However, monie a gash carle's dune as daft an action, sae I even gaed; and atweel we didna want for company. Some o' them were unco braw, buskit wi' blue ribbands roun their necks, as braid's your luif, wi' gowd and siller on them, and a picture o' Sant Andro, made out o' some auld capper baikie, and as big's the crown o' your hat, hingan at the end o' it. I was geyan hungry, for there's na parritch to be gotten here, and thin tea and coffee mak an unco fushionless breakfast for a young chield like me, wha's teeth are langer than his beard. They promised to let us fa' to gin four o'clock, but I wat it was five oors at e'en or e'er they let us put the spune in our mouth. And when it cam, siccan a dinner! Ane would hae thocht, to look at the tables, that it had been a dinner for a wheen Lunnen aldermen, instead o' plain rough and round Scotsmen; I kenna how

mony kinds o' veevres there were, a' unco temptsome nae doubt, for gustin the gab and garring ane eat till his kyte is as tent as a drum, and his fecket like to rive, to sae naething o' gi'en him the gout; but then as it was intended for a Sant Andro's dinner I expeckit some gude barley kail' wi' plenty o' singit sheeps' heads and trotters, some gude aitmeal farls, belyve a sonsy haggis, or a wheen meally puddins, as was fitten to set before a yaup chield wi' a tume stamach, that ca's himsel a Scotsman. But waes my heart, for a' sheeps' heads and haggises there, a hen micht haud them in her steekit nieve and it be ne'er a bit the fouer. A wheen whigmaleeris stud up like Wully Wastle's castle, wi' bits of blue flags hingan frae them; and the soup they gied us, for ony thing I ken, micht be thocht vera gude in France, where, they say, they seldom get ony thing better than boild puddock broo, but it 'll ne'r gang doun wi' the like o' me; and if it had na' been for some roasted bubbly jocks, and twa three deuks, I dinna kin what we wou'd hae dune. But hunger's gude kitchen, they say, and sae we yockit till't, and did the best we could. Then they gied us some shilpit wine to drink, for there was neither Athole brose, nor yet a cog o' gude swats to be gotten, though ye could hae gien a' the carse o' Gowrie for't. They sent round a bottle atweal, o' some thing they ca' whiskey, and some o' them smell❜t and pree' it as I would do sugar o' lead, but I wat naebody that e'er pree'd the gude peat-reek would hae leukit at sic dish washings.

"And this was the muckle heard tell o' Sant Andro's dinner! But waur than a' that yet. Where we came frae, it's the fashion to drink toasts after dinner; ye dinna ken muckle about that yet in this kintra. Weel, I kenna wha had the makin o' them, but if he was a Scotsman, he weel deserved to hae his lugs claw't, and if he wasna a Scotsman, I wonder what set him to scaud his mouth in other folks' kail? The toasts micht do vera weel for Americans, but for Scotsmen it was a black burnin shame. I'se gie ye only twa o' them; (I would turn them into Scots, but they dinna deserve it.) 1st. The king of Great Britain, and all friendly powers. 2d. The vice president of the United States, elevated by the voice of a free and intelligent people, to the second situation in the only representative government upon earth. Rub your specks, honest friend, and read them owre again. They're aneuch to gar ane scunner. the last, I would juist like to ken if ony body that drank it, believe't what they were saying? And I would juist speer what government it was they copiet frae, when they pat their girrs thegither to cooper up this ane? But for a Scotsman to gie the ither toast about the king, it's perfectly awsome to think

As to

o't! Ye'll no forget, that a' the Scotsmen there were either subjects o' the king like mysel, or had ance been subjects, and if they drank his health ava' they should hae dune't in a mair respectfu' like way than that. They didna drink his health because he had ance been their sovereign; and because they had sat and beckit themsells i' the sun in the lown o' his dyke side, and on his bonnie green knowes; na, na, past favors are sune forgotten, and now they dinna care a custock for our gude auld king. And what was't made them drink his health, but juist that he happen't no to be crackin croons wi' uncle Sam. And sae they drank him and a' the freendly pouirs; he wasna gude eneuch to be drank his lane, but they gied ye a nievefu' o' them a' at ance. Juist like an auld wife sellin hash't pears, giein the bits o' weans twathree mae, because they're no vera gude. And wha's the freendly pouirs they tied in the same tether wi' him, but sic loons as the dey o' Algiers, the grand Turk, the coomie president of Hayti, and the emperor o' Cheeny? Siccan a cogfu' to put gude auld George amang! And by way o' syndin't owre their thrapple, they played the king's anthem; and a' this was doin honor to the king!!! Juist as muckle honor as I would gie to the hangman if I was to gie for a toast, Jack Draw-the-raip, and a' the thiefgrippers, and then play the rogue's march after! Juist compare the way the fause Scotsmen speak o' the king, and o' the vice president. Juist tell me whilk o' them leeves amang the maist intelligent people. There were twathree mae things a wee queer at that meeting, but it would take a mune to tell them a', sae I'se naething mair, but juist leave a' I've said to the consideration o' ilka man that's gotten an unce o' mother wit, whether he's Scots or American, Heeland or Lalland.

"And now, Maister Prenter, gif ye'll put this bit screed in a neuk of your newspaper, I will be muckle obleegit to you; and ony ither body that prents a paper likes to copy't, I'll say he's a gude carl, and wuss him weel. But tak care that your bits o' laddies spell't richt, and just as I hae written it.

"And I'll be your leal freend,

"RINGAN TEUGH-AND-STIEVE."

New York, Fuirsday, at e'en.

DR. FRANKLIN'S EPITAPH.

DR. FRANKLIN's well known Epitaph on himself as a printer, is of later date than either of the two following epigrams, which most probably suggested the idea.

The World.

The world's a book, writ by th' eternal art
Of the great Author; printed in man's heart;
'Tis falsely printed, though divinely penn❜d,
And all the errata will appear at th' end.

The world's a printing-house, our words are thoughts,
Our deeds are characters of several sizes;
Each soul's a compositor, of whose faults

The Levites are correctors; and heaven revises;
Earth is the common press, from which being driven,
We're gather'd, sheet by sheet, and bound for heaven.

Scholars have often indulged in spiritualizing books. "A woman," says one, " is a book." Another has the following Epigram on Marriage:

Let the good man, for nuptial rites designed,
Turn over every page of woman kind;

Mark every sense, and how the readings vary,
And when he's read them thorough, let him marry.

66

THE HARVEST TALE.

"O FATHER, dear father! lament now with me;
This morning I've been at our wood,
And the fine flowing leaves of your favourite tree
Around on the grass are all strew'd;

And sure 'tis a pity! for lovely and green,
All summer they yielded a shade,
Dear father, to you, who against it would lean,
While sister and I round it play'd.

H

"Of late they began to change colour indeed,
Like the corn when 'tis ripe on the field:
And the dark glossy green became yellow and red,
As if they ripe berries would yield:

I thought this was pretty, and ne'er heard you say
That the leaves would soon fall from the tree;
And I never was happier than t'other fine day,

66

When you look'd there at sister and me.'

Why, my boy, I am griev'd at the tale you have told,
But the leaves every year drop around,

They are green when in youth, and turn red when they're old,
Then the wind blows them down to the ground.
But take comfort, my boy: when the winter is fled,
The leaves will appear on the tree,

And again form a bower, thy father to shade,
And the gambols of sister and thee."

"Why, that's good ;-but, my father, I've sad news to tell, Old William, who liv'd at hill-side,

And lately came hither, so wan and so pale,

Old William this morning hath died."

"Old William hath died? Ah! indeed, I am sad; But age, when it ripens, must fall;

Though green was his summer, his autumn must fade; Such, my boy, is the end of us all."

"Then he falls like the leaves of your favourite tree! But when the long winter is o'er,

Old William again on the hills shall we see

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A feeding his flock, as before?"

Ah, no! my sweet boy! the dead wander no more
In the bounds of this wind-wasted scene;

But to regions immortal all good spirits soar,

More lovely, more lasting, and green."

A.