lief. There is too much gross and hardened vice, on our list must for the present be deferred, lest too much misery, and almost too much of suffer our lighter matter encroach too far on the wits, ing inflicted on the victim of a loving nature, and poets, politicians, and Utilitarian philosophers, who a weak understanding, great as her folly had been. elbow each other for places in the popular and We perceive, with regret, that the other novels well-crammed pages of Tait,

GERMAN TRANSLATIONS OF POPULAR SCOTTISH SONGS.

*We committed an error last month in attributing the Translation of Pibroch of Donald Dhu to that Count of Purgstall, who lived for a considerable time in Edinburgh, and married Miss Cranstoun, the sister of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, and the early friend and life-long correspondent of Sir Walter Scott. The last Count of Purgstall was the translator; who, though, he died in boyhood, after giving promise of remarkable talent, as he survived his father, bore the title. He must, however, from his birth, and the peculiar character and attainments and tastes of his celebrated mother, have been more Scottish, or more poetically connected with our country, than his father could have been. Those of our readers who are familiar with Captain Basil Hall's Schloss Hainfeld, will remember the touching history of the highly-gifted boy, and the bereaved mother whom sorrow for his premature loss bowed down with grief to the end of her days.

BON GAULTIER AND HIS FRIENDS.

"A moy n'est que honneur et gloire d'estre dict et reputé BON GAULTIER et bon compaignon: en ce nom, suis bien venų en toutes bonnes compaignies de Pantagruelistes."-RABELAIS, Prologue de premier livre.

ties.

BON GAULTIER.

SCENE.-The Interior of the Martello Tower, Leith-A| comelier without injuring his national peculiarilarge circular Apartment lighted by a chandelier from the centre-Bookshelves and Presses round the wallsA large fire is blazing, near which are two sofas and a table, and a camp bed is dimly visible opposite-In the middle of the floor is a square opening, with a lifted trap-touch him. door, at which the shafts of a ladder are visible. TIME -Near Midnight.

Comelier? It would be painting the lily, to He's a whole garrison in himself. That red head of his is as good as a blunderbuss. I never knew the messenger's concurrent yet, that could look him steadily in the face. But how like you the interior?

M'Pherson! Bring up some of Cockburn and Campbell's yellow seal, the spirit-case, and the kettle! You have no idea how cool the cellars are. O'MALLEY.

Hav'n't I? I'll trouble you for a light. I had as fine a specimen of coolness to-day as you'll find to Cotton's?-I left Glasgow this morning, and out the south of Kamschatka.-Are these cigars of a strange perversity determined to travel by the sole remanent coach, instead of the railway. The consequence was, that we stuck in the snow, near one of your country cathedrals,-I think they call it Shotts; and I had to wade three mortal miles with the fifteen-stone widow of a Greenock grocer upon my back.

BON GAULTIER.

BON GAULTIER.

Not a word. Most probably he was some West country lad, who was canonized for the invention of calico. There are a good many of these gentry in the west. St. Mirren has charge of the destinies of Paisley, and Ayr confides in the mediation of a certain St. Quivox. I wish somebody would write a sort of supplementary Semita, and act as the biographer of the lesser luminaries who have been jostled from the Scottish calendar.

O'MALLEY.

Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine
Let's spend the nicht in frolics;
We'll never want a patron saunt
Sae lang 's we've gude St. Rollox!
O'MALLEY.

Thank Heaven! you've reached the end of it.
My teeth are on edge! The fellow who wrote
that deserves to be ducked in his native Gusedubs!
Is there much of this trash afloat?

BON GAULTIER.

Reams. It seems, in fact, to be becoming the standard literature of Scotland. The language of

"Saint Mirren, and strike home!" What a mag- Burns has been withdrawn, as antiquated and vulnificent war-cry!

BON GAULTIER.

Or "Saint Rollox for the Gorbals!" I shall certainly introduce them in my next novel. By the way, I had forgot that I have some verses on the subject of this very Saint, from a bard of the Whistlebinkie school,-execrable enough, I allow, but not worse than the average of the Molendinar ditties. Suppose I sing them?

gar; and the jargon of Camlachie is substituted in its place. Have you seen Whistlebinkie? O'MALLEY.

Not I. What the mischief is it?-a person or a place?

BON GAULTIER.

Neither. It is the nom de guerre of the Paisley Parnassus, or rather the mash-tub in which our occidental rhymsters are pleased to manufacture their small beer. There is humour, however, With all my heart. Only wait till I mix my- about the knaves, which is a great redeeming quaself another glass. Now, push along!

O'MALLEY.

BON GAULTIER sings

THE SONG OF ST. ROLLOX.
AIR,-"St. Patrick was a gentleman."
Your h'athen bards may rhyme and rant
O' Castor and o' Pollux.

But what were they, the brithers twae,
To oor auld freend St. Rollox?
What though they raise or lay the gales
That Boreas has begotten,
While oor St. Rollox guards oor bales
O' calico and cotton!

Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine;
Let's spend the nicht in frolics;
We'll never want a patron saunt

Sae lang's we've gude St. Rollox!

Nae foreign saunts will do for hiz;

O' them we've had jam satis;
What for should we no raise our saunts,
As weel's oor ain pitawties?
A Glesgie chap he was-nae waur-
Nane o' your Romish fangle,
And naething kent o' the Calendar,'
Though his mither keep't a mangle!
Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine;
Let's spend the nicht in frolics;
We'll never want a patron saunt

Sae lang's we've gude St. Rollox!
His faether had a wee pawn shop-
His sign was three, not four balls-
His sisters twae, they used to stop
Oot bye about the Gorbals.

The Green has seen his bairus' pranks;
And aft my fancy gladdens,

To think by Molendinar's banks
He roamed, and the Cowcaddens.

Then, brithers, join your sangs wi' mine;
Let's spend the nicht in frolics;
We'll never want a patron saunt

Sae lang 's we've gude St. Rollox!
He kent fu' well to wind and reel,
Invented caumric collars,

And was the first that bauldly durst
Singe muslin wi' het rollers;

He search'd the land, and fund blackband,
Made red the bellows' noses,

And frae his ain lang chumley tap
Got his apotheosis!

lity; and sometimes there is a glimpse of genius;
but the dialect is generally disgusting.
O'MALLEY.

I don't know much about Scotch poetry; but it sounds both strong and plaintive.

BON GAULTIER.

So it always will, when the proper string is touched. There are some men, such as Ballantyne, Thom, Park, or Latto, who can still' write well and purely; and poor Allan Cunningham was the best and the purest of them all. But the worse taste is prevalent.

O'MALLEY.

What is Wilson the vocalist doing?
BON GAULTIER.

Declining sadly in his matter. After the glorious Jacobite ditties, which hurried one back in soul to the stormy era of Culloden, he was pleased to favour the public with a "Nicht wi' Burns." Some people liked it, I daresay-but to me it recalled the memory of the gauger more forcibly than the recollection of the poet. He is now, I hear, about to exhilarate our pensive public with "A Haver wi' Jamie Hogg."

THANE (rushing wildly up the ladder.)

Ta sealgh! ta sealgh! She'll no bide nae langer in ta water hoos, wi' ta kelpies an' ta speaking sealghs! Safe us! here's ta muckle brute(Snatches a blunderbuss from the wall.)

YOUNG SCOTLAND, (bounds up the ladder in a closefitting sealskin dress.)

Drop the gun, you Highland heathen, or I'll brain you on the spot like a Covenanter! Don't you know me ?

THANE.

Oigh! and sure enough it's Maister Charles, at his auld pliskies. Wha wad hae thought to see ye here at this deed hour o' nicht; and, Lord safe us! like a sealgh?

YOUNG SCOTLAND.

YOUNG SCOTLAND.

Love. There is a charming creature at the light-house-an enchanting Hero that tends that Pharos of the Forth. Her image has been perpetually before me for the last three months: so, this evening, when I saw the distant spark begin to twinkle on the island, and thought that it was kindled by the fair fingers of Jean M'Closkie, I felt that I could no longer, with honour, refuse to obey the signal; and, accordingly, I committed myself to the waves.

O'MALLEY.

But why did you not take a boat, Sir?
YOUNG SCOTLAND.

Did Leander call a pair of oars to cross the Hellespont? His secret would have been profaned in the custody of the jolly young watermen who plied at the stairs of Abydos; and, in like manner, I eschewed the accommodation of a boat redolent of herring-brine, and the society of a couple of gentlemen more addicted to the use of whisky and pig-tail, than to a diligent exercise of their

Vanish, thou son of Cuthullin, and return with razors. I may mention, however, that I looked a tumbler. Well, Bon, how are you?

O'MALLEY, (Aside.)

Bon, who is this extraordinary Triton?

BON GAULTIER.

A perfect Proteus. Allow me to introduce you:
Captain O'Malley-Mr. Charles Edward.
YOUNG SCOTLAND.

O'Malley! The very man, above all others, I wished to know-excuse the dampness of my fin. May I take the liberty of inquiring for Lucy-I mean Mrs. O'Malley, and the rest of the family? Bon, it would be a kind turn in you to concoct a tumbler for my especial benefit; for the night is sharp, and I have had rather an unusual stretch. BON GAULTIER.

It is no great swim from the end of the pier, since you were mad enough to try it.

YOUNG SCOTLAND.

Not from the end of the pier, certainly Inchkeith is a trifle further,

BON GAULTIER.

Inchkeith! What on earth do you mean?
YOUNG SCOTLAND.

in upon the dredgers, on my way back, and re-
freshed myself with a few dozens of oysters, and a
small thimbleful of the Ardent. I desired them to
drop a board or two here on their return.
BON GAULTIER.

If the natives arrive, I shall believe you. In the meantime, and as a condition of supper, I ordain you to describe your adventure in verse, for the edification of Captain O'Malley.

O'MALLEY.

Pray, don't put your friend to that trouble.
BON GAULTIER.

Trouble! you don't know him. Verse flows more
naturally from his mouth than prose. I believe
that he could versify the Almanack.
YOUNG SCOTLAND.

I'm sure I've no objections. By Jove, though, I made a near shave of it at the pier. Half-abut dozen fellows banged at me with ball; and if I had not dived like a Newfoundland, the whitings would have had a benefit. But to my rhyming gear. Here goes for

THE LEANDER OF THE FORTH.
The night was dark, the stars were dim,
Each jealously was watching each;
And through the weeds that shoreward swim,
The waves were breaking on the beach.
I stood beside the bulwark stone,
And look'd across the heaving water,
To catch the first dim spark that shone,
And call'd me to M'Closkie's daughter.

It came-it came! a radiant gleam,
Like some vast serpent's eye of fire;
And from the middle ocean stream
It glitter'd with inverted spire.
One daring plunge! the waves, though high,
Were not so strong as to divide us;

And, like the young Leander, I
Was soon half way from my Abydos!

She met me at the mussel cove,

She did the tenderest of women:
'Tis sweet to feel the arms we love

Entwined around us--after swimming!
The words she spoke, the kiss she gave,
Not Hero's self could ere surpass her!

Bravo! capital! When I was at the storming sweetest lady lies, only to be roused by the embrace of Ciudad Rodrigoof her dying lover.