An' hey for the sanctified Murray,

Our land wha wi' chapels has stored; He foundered his horse amang harlots, But gi'ed the auld naig to the Lord.

III.

WHA will buy my troggin?
Fine election ware;
Broken trade o' Broughton,

A' in high repair.

Buy braw troggin,

Frae the banks o' Dee;

Wha wants troggin

Let him come to me.

There's a noble Earl's*

Fame and high renown,

For an auld sang

It's thought the gudes were stown.

Here's the worth o' Broughton t

In a needle's ee;

Here's a reputation

Tint by Balmaghie.

Here's an honest conscience

Might a prince adorn;

Frae the downs o' Tynwald-
Sae was never born.

The Earl of Galloway.

+ Mr. Murray.

Gordon, of Balmaghie.

Here's the stuff and lining,
O' Cardoness's head;
Fine for a sodger

A' the wale o' lead.

Here's a little wadset,
Buittle's scrap o' truth,
Pawnèd in a gin-shop,
Quenching holy drouth.

Here's armorial bearings
Frae the manse o' Urr;
The crest, an auld crab-apple'
Rotten at the core.

Here is Satan's picture,
Like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle,
Sprawlin' like a taed.

Here's the worth and wisdom
Collieston can boast;

By a thievish midge

They had been nearly lost.

Here is Murray's fragments
O' the ten commands ;
Gifted by black Jock

To get them aff his hands.

Saw ye e'er sic troggin?
If to buy ye're slack,
Hornie's turnin chapman,—
He'll buy a' the pack.

* Rev. Dr. Muirhead, minister of Urr, in Galloway.

IV.

JOHN BUSBY'S LAMENTATION.

'TWAS in the seventeen hundred year
O' Christ, and ninety-five,
That year I was the waest man
O' ony man alive.

In March, the three-and-twentieth day,
The sun rase clear and bright;
But oh, I was a waefu' man
Ere toofa' o' the night.

Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land
Wi' equal right and fame,

And thereto was his kinsman joined,
The Murray's noble name!

Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land,
Made me the judge o' strife;

But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke,
And eke my hangman's knife.

'Twas by the banks o' bonnie Dee,
Beside Kirkcudbright towers,
The Stewart and the Murray there
Did muster a' their powers.

The Murray on the auld grey yaud,
Wi' winged spurs did ride,

That auld grey yaud, yea, Nid'sdale rade,
He staw upon Nidside.

An' there had been the yerl himsel',

Oh, there had been nae play; But Garlies was to London gane, And sae the kye might stray.

And there was Balmaghie, I ween,
In the front rank he wad shine;
But Balmaghie had better been
Drinking Madeira wine.

Frae the Glenken came to our aid
A chief o' doughty deed,

In case that worth should wanted be,
O' Kenmore we had need.

And there sae grave Squire Cardoness
Looked on till a' was done:
Sae, in the tower o' Cardoness,
A howlet sits at noon.

And there led I the Busbys a';
My gamesome Billy Will,

And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
My footsteps followed still.

The Douglas and the Herons' name
We set nought to their score:
The Douglas and the Herons' name
Had felt our weight before.

But Douglases o' weight had we,
A pair o' trusty lairds,

For building cot-houses sae famed,

And christening kail-yards.

And by our banners marched Muirhead,

And Buittle was na slack;

Whose haly priesthood nane can stain,

For wha can dye the black?

STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace-
Discarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?
His forbears' virtues all contrasted-
The very name of Douglas blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But he has superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;

Follies and crimes have stained the name;
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From aught that's good exempt.

SKETCH OF A CHARACTER.

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:
A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,
Learned Vive la bagatelle! et Vive l'amour!
So travelled monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore, but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood :
His solid sense by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,

Still making work his selfish craft must mend.