But at length the Captain sicken'd, and grew worse from day to day,
And all miss'd him in the coffee-room, from which now he stay'd away,
On Sabbaths too the wee kirk made a melancholy show,

All for wanting of the presence of our venerable beau ;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

And in spite of all that Cleghorn and Corkindale could do,
"Twas plain, from twenty symptoms, that death was in his view,

So the Captain made his testament, and submitted to his foe,
And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk,-'tis the way we all must go ;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

Touch once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed,

For a prince of good old fellows that alack-a-day is dead,

A prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also,
That has left the Salt-market in sorrow, grief, and wo;
Oh, we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

HE Abbot arose, and closed his hood,

And donn'd his sandal shoon,

And wander'd forth, alone, to look

Upon the summer moon:

A starlight sky was o'er his head,

GG

A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,

And the waves a soothing sound:

It was not an hour, nor a scene,

But love and calm delight;

for aught

Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought

On his wrinkled brow that night.

He gazed on the river that gurgled by,

But he thought not of the reeds :
He clasp'd his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads;

If he look'd to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke

The Spirit that dwelleth there;

If he open'd his lips, the words they spoke

Had never the tone of prayer.

A pious priest might the Abbot seem,

He had sway'd the crosier well;

But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream,

The Abbot were loth to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.

Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove

And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,
And rocks whose very crags scem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!

But the Abbot was thinking of scenery,

About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath

Grew dark above his head;

He did not mark how the mossy path

Grew damp beneath his tread;

And nearer he came, and still more near,

To a pool, in whose recess

The water had slept for many a year,

Unchanged and motionless;

From the river stream it spread away

The space of half a rood;

The surface had the hue of clay

And the scent of human blood;

The trees and the herbs that round it grew

Were venomous and foul;

And the birds that through the bushes flew

Were the vulture and the owl;

The water was as dark as rank

As ever a company pump'd;

And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,

Grew rotten while it jump'd ;

And bold was he who thither came

At midnight, man or boy;

For the place was cursed with an evil name,

And that name was the "Devil's Decoy!"

The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,

And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:

When suddenly rose a dismal tone

Was it a song, or was it a moan?

"Oh ho, Oh ho!

Above, below

Lightly and brightly they glide and go;
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy!"
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He look'd to the left and he look'd to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
"Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,

And the life blood colder run:

The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!

All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legg'd stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod ;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore ;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tatter'd flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be Time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double-
Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin,
Till it hardly cover'd the bones within.
The line the abbot saw him throw

Had been fashion'd and form'd long ages ago,
And the hands that work'd his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:
You would have sworn, as you look'd on them,
He had fish'd in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

Minnow or gentil, worm or fly

It seem'd not such to the Abbot's eye:
Gaily it glitter'd with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fasten'd a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within and a chain without;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin
And the water fizz'd as it tumbled in!