ance than between the acts. And what is there better you could substitute in its place?"

Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked round to see if she had been heard; when she observed her new acquaintance, with a very thoughtful air, had turned from her to fix his eyes upon the statue of Britannia.

Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to forget that he had spoken to her, very abruptly walked away.

Mr. Gosport, who was advancing to Cecilia and had watched part of this scene, stopped him as he was retreating, and said, 'Why, Meadows, how's this? are you caught at last?"

66

"Oh, worn to death! worn to a thread!" cried he, stretching himself and yawning; "I have been talking with a young lady to entertain her! oh, such heavy work! I would not go through it again for millions!"

"What, have you talked yourself out of breath?"

"No; but the effort! the effort! Oh, it has unhinged me for a fortnight! Entertaining a young lady!—one had better be a galley-slave at once!"

66

'Well, but did she not pay your toils? She is surely a sweet creature."

66

Nothing can pay one for such insufferable exertion! though she's well enough, too-better than the common run - but shy, quite too shy; no drawing her out."

"I thought that was to your taste. You commonly hate much volubility. How have I heard you bemoan yourself when attacked by Miss Larolles!"

"Larolles! Oh, distraction! she talks me into a fever in two minutes. But so it is forever! nothing but extremes to be met with common girls are too forward, this lady is too reserved always some fault! always some drawback! nothing ever perfect!"

"Nay, nay," cried Mr. Gosport, "you do not know her; she is perfect enough, in all conscience."

"Better not know her then," answered he, again yawning, "for she cannot be pleasing. Nothing perfect is natural, I hate everything out of nature."

1995

ROBERT BURNS.

ROBERT BURNS, a Scottish poet, born near the town of Ayr, Jan. 25, 1759; died, at Dumfries, July 21, 1796. The poet's father was occupied as a gardener upon the estate of a gentleman until 1776, when he leased a farm near Ayr. At an early age Robert and his brother were sent to school at Alloway, about a mile from home. To these means of education were added the few books in the father's possession; among which was: "A Select Collection of English Songs." Of these songs Burns says: "I pored over them, driving my cart or walking to labor, song by song, verse by verse, carefully noting the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am convinced that I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, such as it is."

In 1786 he published a volume of poems to procure money for his passage to Jamaica, but the success of the volume caused him to remain at home, where he at once became famous and was received into the best Edinburgh society. He was made an exciseman in 1786, but his dissipated habits kept him poor and hastened his death which occurred in his thirty-eighth year.

Among the poems to which he owes his fame are: "The Cotter's Saturday Night"; "Hallowe'en"; "Tam o' Shanter " (1790); "To a Mountain Daisy"; "To a Mouse"; "Twa Dogs"; "Highland Mary." His principal collected editions are, in the order of publication: "Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect" (1786); "The Scots' Musical Museum" (6 vols., 1787-1803); "A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs .. with Select and Characteristic Verses," which contains 100 songs by the poet. But such editions have been issued almost annually since 1805.

TAM O' SHANTER.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market days are wearing late,

An' folk begin to tak' the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,

An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whaur sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,

Ae market day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That eviry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how monie counsels sweet,
How many lengthened sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale: Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, breezing finely,

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious;
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;