The night proved cold, dreary, and dark,

So that, worn out with sighings and sobbings, Next morn they were found stiff and stark, And stone-dead, by two little Cock-Robins.

These two little birds it sore grieves

To see what so cruel a dodge I call, -
They cover the bodies with leaves,
An interment quite ornithological;
It might more expensive have been,

But I doubt, though I've not been to see 'em, If among those in all Kensal Green

You could find a more neat Mausoleum.

Now, whatever your rogues may suppose,

Conscience always makes restless their pillows,

And Justice, though blind, has a nose

That sniffs out all conceal'd peccadilloes.

The wicked old Uncle they say,

In spite of his riot and revel,

Was hippish and qualmish all day,

And dreamt all night long of the d-1.

He grew gouty, dyspeptic, and sour,

And his brow, once so smooth and so placid,

Fresh wrinkles acquired every hour,

And whatever he swallow'd turn'd acid.

The neighbours thought all was not right,
Scarcely one with him ventured to parley,
And Captain Swing came in the night,
And burnt all his beans and his barley.

There was hardly a day but some fox

Ran away with his geese and his ganders:

His wheat had the mildew, his flocks

Took the rot, and his horses the glanders;

His daughters drank rum in their tea,
His son, who had gone for a sailor,

Went down in a steamer at sea,

And his wife ran away with a tailor!

It was clear he lay under a curse;

None would hold with him any communion; Every day matters grew worse and worse, Till they ended at length in The Union; While his man being caught in some fact, (The particular crime I've forgotten,) When he came to be hanged for the act, Split, and told the whole story to Cotton.

Understanding the matter was blown,
His employer became apprehensive
Of what, when 'twas more fully known,
Might ensue-he grew thoughtful and pensive;
He purchased some sugar-of-lead,
Took it home, popp'd it into his porridge,

Ate it up, and then took to his bed,

And so died in the workhouse at Norwich.

MORAL.

Ponder well now, dear Parents, each word
That I've wrote, and when Sirius rages
In the dog-days, don't be so absurd

As to blow yourselves out with Green-gages!
Of stone-fruits in general be shy,

And reflect it's a fact beyond question
That Grapes, when they're spelt with an i,
Promote anything else but digestion.-

-When you set about making your will,
Which is commonly done when a body's ill,
Mind, and word it with caution and skill,
And avoid, if you can, any codicil!
When once you've appointed an heir
To the fortune you've made, or obtain'd, ere
You leave a reversion beware

Whom you place in contingent remainder!

Executors, Guardians, and all

Who have children to mind, don't ill-treat them,

Nor think that, because they are small

And weak, you may beat them, and cheat them; Remember that "ill-gotten goods

Never thrive; " their possession's but cursory, So never turn out in the woods

Little folks you should keep in the nursery.

Be sure he who does such base things

Will ne'er stifle Conscience's clamour;
His "riches will make themselves wings,"
And his property come to the hammer!
Then He, and not those he bereaves,
Will have most cause for sighings and sobbings,
When he finds himself smother'd with leaves
(Of fat catalogues) heap'd up by Robins!

The incidents recorded in the succeeding Legend were communicated to a dear friend of our family by the late lamented Sir Walter Scott. The names and localities have been scrupulously retained, as she is ready to testify. The proceedings in this case are, I believe, recorded in some of our law reports, though I have never been able to lay my hand upon them.

THE DEAD DRUMMER.

A LEGEND OF SALISBURY PLAIN.

Он, Salisbury Plain is bleak and bare,
At least so I've heard many people declare,

For I fairly confess I never was there ;

Not a shrub nor a tree, Nor a bush can you

see;

No hedges, no ditches, no gates, no stiles,

Much less a house, or a cottage for miles ;

-It's a very sad thing to be caught in the rain

When night's coming on upon Salisbury Plain.

Now, I'd have you to know That a great while

ago,

The best part of a century, may be, or so, -
Across this same plain, so dull and so dreary,
A couple of Travellers, way-worn and weary,

Were making their way; Their profession, you'd

say,

At a single glance did not admit of a query;

The pump-handled pig-tail and whiskers worn then,

With scarce an exception, by seafaring men,

The jacket, the loose trousers "bows'd up together"

all

Guiltless of braces, as those of Charles Wetherall, -
The pigeon-toed step, and the rollicking motion,
Bespoke them two genuine sons of the Ocean,
And show'd in a moment their real characters

(The accent so placed on this word by our Jack

Tars).

The one in advance was sturdy and strong,
With arms uncommonly bony and long