King Covenanter, come out if ye daur venture! Set your feet on Scots ground, English, if ye daur!

* * * * *

"King Henry" somewhat resembles "I dree I droppit it;" only, instead of standing, the girls forming the ring sit, or rather crouch in a sort of working-tailor attitude. One girl, occupying the centre, is "it." A second girl is on the outside. Immediately the ring begins singing the rhyme:—

King Henry, King Henry, Run, boys, run; You, with the red coat, Follow with the drum,

The one on the outside is pursued by the girl from the centre. The rhyme may be repeated as often as the ring decides; but the object of the one who is "it" is to overtake and "tig" the other before the singing ceases. Otherwise she remains unrelieved, and must try, and try, until she succeeds in getting out, and putting another in her place; and so on.

* * * * *

"The Blue Bird," played by very small children, is rather pretty. The rhyme is:—

Here comes a [blue] bird through the window, Here comes a [blue] bird through the door; Here comes a [blue] bird through the window, Hey, diddle, hi dum, day. Take a little dance and a hop in the corner, Take a little dance and a hop in the floor; Take a little dance and a hop in the corner, Hey, diddle, hi dum, day.

The players dance round in a ring. One previously, by the process of a chapping-out rhyme, being made "it," goes first outside, then into the centre. Her business now is to decide who shall succeed her; and according as the colour-word in the rhyme—red, blue, green, or yellow, etc.—corresponds with the dress of all the individual players in the successive singing, the ones spotted successively take their place in the centre, and the process goes on, of course, until all have shared alike in the game.

* * * * *

"When I was a Young Thing," of simple though pretty action, has had a wide vogue. Its rhyme goes:—

When I was a young thing, A young thing, a young thing; When I was a young thing, How happy was I. 'Twas this way, and that way, And this way, and that way; When I was a young thing, Oh, this way went I.

When I was a school-girl, etc. When I was a teacher, etc. When I had a sweetheart, etc. When I had a husband, etc. When I had a baby, etc. When I had a donkey, etc. When I took in washing, etc. When my baby died, oh died, etc. When my husband died, etc.

The players, joining hands, form a ring, and dance or walk round singing the words, and keeping the ring form until the end of the fourth line in each successive verse, when they unclasp, and stand still. Each child then takes hold of her skirt and dances individually to the right and left, making two or three steps. Then all walk round singly, singing the second four lines, and making suitable action to the words as they sing and go: the same form being continued throughout.

* * * * *

Still simpler is "Carry my Lady to London." In this game two children cross hands grasping each other's wrists and their own as well—thus forming a seat, on which a third child can be carried. When hoisted and in order, the bearers step out singing:—

Gie me a needle to stick i' my thoom To carry my lady to London; London Bridge is broken down, And I must let my lady down.

Each child is thus carried in turn.

* * * * *

"A B C" is a spirited game, admirably adapted for indoor practice on a wet day, which is played by children seated round a table, or at the fireside. One sings a solo—a verse of some nursery rhyme. For instance:—

Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.

The chorus of voices takes up the tune, and the solo is repeated; after which the alphabet is sung through, and the last letter, Z, is sustained and repeated again and again, to bother the next child, whose turn it now is to sing the next solo. The new solo must be a nursery rhyme not hitherto sung by any of the company. If unable to supply a fresh rhyme within a fixed limit, the player stands out of the game and pays a forfeit. Less brain-taxing entertainments often engage adult wits.

* * * * *

"My Theerie and my Thorie," with a political significance, is a game widely played. In one place it is known as "Cam a teerie arrie ma torry;" in another, "Come a theory, oary mathorie;" in yet another, "Come a theerie, Come a thorie;" or it may be, as in Perthshire, "My theerie and my thorie." And even as the refrain varies, so do the rhymes. But the action is generally the same. The players divide into two sides of about equal number, in lines facing each other. Moving forwards and backwards the sides sing verse about of the following rhyme:—

Question.—Have you any bread and wine, Bread and wine, bread and wine; Have you any bread and wine, My theerie and my thorie?

Answer.—Yes, we have some bread and wine, Bread and wine, bread and wine, Yes, we have some bread and wine, My theerie and my thorie.

Question.—We shall have one glass of it, etc.

Answer.—One glass of it you shall not get, etc.

Question.—We are all King George's men, etc.

Answer.—What care we for King George's men, etc.

Question.—How many miles to Glasgow Lee? etc.

Answer.—Sixty, seventy, eighty-three, etc.

Question.—Will I be there gin candle-licht? etc.

Answer.—Just if your feet be clean and slicht, etc.

Question.—Open your gates and let me through, etc.

Answer.—Not without a beck and a boo.

Reply.—There's a beck and there's a boo, Open your gates and let me through.

A struggle ensues to break through each other's lines, and reach a fixed goal on either side—the first to arrive being the victors.

* * * * *

"Glasgow Ships" is a simple but pretty game. All join hands, forming a ring, and, moving round, sing:—

Glasgow ships come sailing in, Come sailing in, come sailing in; Glasgow ships come sailing in On a fine summer morning.

You daurna set your fit upon, Your fit upon, your fit upon; You daurna set your fit upon, Or Gentle John will kiss you.

Three times will kiss you; Four times will bless you; Five times butter and bread Upon a silver salver.

Who shall we send it to? Send it to, send it to; Who shall we send it to? To Mrs. [Thomson's] daughter.

Take her by the lily-white hand, Lead her o'er the water; Give her kisses, one, two, three, She's the favourite daughter.

Braw news is come to town, Braw news is carried; Braw news is come to town, [Maggie Thomson's] married.

First she got the kail-pot, Syne she got the ladle; Syne she got a dainty wean, And syne she got a cradle.

The girl named turns her back to the centre of the ring, and the game is resumed. When all in like manner have been named and have turned, the "soo's race" ensues: a hurry-scurry round—which continues until some one falls, and the game ends by all tumbling in a confused heap.

* * * * *

"Airlie's Green," played by boys and girls alike, has perhaps had its greatest vogue in Strathmore. A space is set apart for the "green," upon which he, or she, who is "Airlie" takes his, or her, stand. The play begins by the crowd encroaching on the "green," when all but "Airlie" sing:—

I set my fit on Airlie's green, And Airlie canna tak' me: I canna get time to steer my brose For Airlie trying to catch me.

"Airlie's" object is to "tig" one within the boundary. The player touched takes his, or her, place, and the game may proceed thus as long as desired.

* * * * *

"Het Rowes and Butter Cakes," in some places called "Hickety, Bickety," is a purely boy's game. One stands with his eyes bandaged, and his hands against a wall or post, with his head resting upon them. One after another his fellows come up unnamed behind him, laying hands on his back; and the rhyme is repeated by all in chorus:—

Launchman, launchman, lo, Where shall this poor Scotchman go? Will he gang east, or will he gang west, Or will he gang to the hoodiecraw's nest?

The "hoodiecraw's nest" is the space between the blindfolded one's feet and the wall. When all have been sent to different places around, he who is "it" removes the bandage from his eyes; and when all are ready he gives the call—"Het rowes and butter cakes!" when all rush back to the spot whence despatched. The last to arrive is "it;" and the game goes on as before. Where played as "Hickety, Bickety," the rhyme is:—

Hickety, bickety, pease scone, Where shall this poor Scotchman gang? Will he gang east, or will he gang west; Or will he gang to the craw's nest?

* * * * *

"Queen Mary." In this game the rhyme goes:—

Queen Mary, Queen Mary, my age is sixteen, My father's a farmer on yonder green, With plenty of money to dress me fu' braw, But nae bonnie laddie will tak' me awa'. One morning I rose, and I looked in the glass, Says I to myself I'm a handsome young lass; My hands by my side and I gave a ha! ha! Yet there's nae bonnie laddie will tak' me awa'.

It is played by girls only, who stand in a row, with one in front alone to begin with, who sings the verses, and chooses another from the line. The two then join hands and advance and retire, repeating together the verses, with suitable action, as the one had done before alone. At the close they select a third from the line; and the game proceeds thus until all are taken over.

* * * * *

"Whuppity Scoorie," though a game peculiar to Lanark, and to the boys of Lanark, and played only once a year, is yet worth mentioning. Its origin, like so many of the Lanark celebrations, is lost in the mists of antiquity, nevertheless, it is still regularly played, and creates a sensation on its annual recurrence, affecting the old scarcely less than the young in the community. From the month of October till the month of February, inclusive, the bells in the Parish Church steeple there cease to ring at six o'clock in the evening, but resume on the first day of March. At the first peal of the bell then the children start and march three times round the church, after which a rush is made for the Wellgate Head, where they engage in a stand-up fight with the youth of New Lanark (who come that length to meet them), the weapons used being their bonnets attached to a long string. The fight over, the victors (generally the boys of the Old Town) return, marching in order, headed by one carrying a huge stick in exalted attitude, with a flag or handkerchief attached to it; and thus arranged, they parade the principal streets, singing, as their fathers and grandfathers sang before them:—

Hooray, boys, hooray, For we have won the day; We've met the bold New Lanark boys, And chased them doun the brae!

* * * * *

In Chambers's Popular Rhymes of Scotland there is a description of "Hinkumbooby," which I have never seen played. It is, however, only an extended version of "Looby-Looby." The party form a circle (says the writer), taking hold of each other's hands. One sings, and the rest join, to the tune of Lullibero:

Fal de ral la, fal de ral la;

while doing so they move a little sideways and back again, beating the time (which is slow) with their feet. As soon as the line is concluded, each claps his hands and wheels grotesquely round, singing at the same time the second line of the verse:—

Hinkumbooby, round about,

Then they sing, with the appropriate gesture—that is, throwing their right hand into the circle and the left out:—

Right hands in, and left hands out,

still beating the time; then add as before, while wheeling round, with a clap of the hands:—

Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, fal de ral la; [Moving sideways as before, hand in hand.] Hinkumbooby, round about, [Wheeling round as before, with a clap of the hands.]

Left hands in and right hands out, Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, fal de ral la, Hinkumbooby, round about.

Right foot in, and left foot out, [Right feet set into the centre.] Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, fal de ral la, Hinkumbooby, round about.

Left foot in, and right foot out, Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, fal de ral la, etc.

Heads in, and backs out, Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, etc.

Backs in, and heads out, Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, etc.

A' feet in, and nae feet out, [On this occasion all sit down, with their feet stretched into the centre of the ring; and it is a great point to rise up promptly enough to be ready for the wheel round.] Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, etc.

Shake hands a', shake hands a', Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, etc.

Good-night a', good-night a', [The boys bowing and the misses curtseying in an affected formal manner.] Hinkumbooby, round about, Fal de ral la, fal de ral la, Hinkumbooby, round about.

* * * * *

More generally played—and not in Scotland only—is "Three Brethren come from Spain." The players stand in two lines, slightly apart, facing each other—the boys on one side, the girls on the other. The boys advance dancing, and singing the first verse. The girls remain motionless, and only she who represents the mother speaks.

We are three brethren come from Spain, All in French garlands; We are come to court your daughter, Jane, And adieu to you, my darlings.

As they recede, the mother replies:—

My daughter Jane she is too young, All in French garlands; She cannot bide your flattering tongue, And adieu to you, my darlings.

The boys advance again, singing:—

Be she young, or be she old, All in French garlands, It's for a bride she must be sold, And adieu to you, my darlings.

Answer:—

A bride, a bride, she shall not be, All in French garlands, Till she go through the world with me, And adieu to you, my darlings.

Address:—

Then fare ye well, my lady gay, All in French garlands; We'll come again some other day, And adieu to you, my darlings.

Answer:—

Come back, come back, you scornful knight, All in French garlands; Clear up your spurs, and make them bright, And adieu to you, my darlings.

Address:—

Of my spurs take you no thought, All in French garlands; For in this town they were not bought, And adieu to you, my darlings.

Answer:—

Smell my lilies, smell my roses, All in French garlands: Which of my daughters do you choose? And adieu to you, my darlings.

Address:—

Are all your daughters safe and sound? All in French garlands: Are all your daughters safe and sound? And adieu to you, my darlings.

Answer:—

In every pocket a thousand pounds, All in French garlands; On every finger a gay, gold ring, And adieu to you, my darlings.

The formula is repeated as above until every boy has chosen a lady-mate, when all march round arm-in-arm in pairs, and the game is ended.

* * * * *

"Here Comes a Poor Sailor from Botany Bay." This is played as a preliminary game to decide who shall join, and which side they will take, in a coming tug-of-war. The chief delight derived is in putting and answering questions. Two principals, standing as rival chiefs, and acting together as catechists, begin the play; and all are warned before replying:—

You must say neither "Yes," "No," nor "Nay," "Black," "White," nor "Grey."

Then, as each child approaches, the formula proceeds:—

Here comes a poor sailor from Botany Bay; Pray, what are you going to give him to-day? A pair of boots [may be the answer]. What colour are they? Brown. Have you anything else to give him? I think so. What colour is it? Red. What is it made of? Cloth. And what colour? Blue. Have you anything else to give him? I don't think so. Would you like a sweet? Yes.

Now he is trapped. He has given one of the fatal replies; and the child who answered "Yes" goes to a den. After all have gone through a similar form, the youngsters are divided into two classes—those who avoided answering in the prohibited terms, and the little culprits in the den, or prison, who had failed in the examination. The tug-of-war now begins, the one class being pitted against the other. No rope is used; but arms are entwined round waists, or skirts, or coat-tails are taken hold of; and the victors crow over the vanquished.

* * * * *

"Janet Jo," widely played, has for dramatis personae, a Father, a Mother, Janet, and a Lover. Janet lies stretched at full length behind the scenes. The father and mother stand revealed to receive the visits of the lover, who approaches singing, to an air somewhat like "The Merry Masons":—

I'm come to court Janet jo, Janet jo, Janet jo; I'm come to court Janet jo— How is she the day?

Parents reply together:—

She's up the stair washin', Washin', washin'; She's up the stair washin'— Ye canna see her the day.

The lover retires, and again, and yet again, advances with the same announcement of his object and purpose, to which he receives similar evasive answers from Janet's parents, who successively represent her as up the stair "bleaching," "drying," and "ironing clothes." At last they reply:—

Janet jo's dead and gane, Dead and gane, dead and gane; Janet jo's dead and gane— Ye'll see her face nae mae!

She is then carried off to be buried, the lover and the rest weeping. Sometimes she revives (to their great joy), and sometimes not, ad libitum—that is, as Janet herself chooses.

A south-country version (Dr. Chambers tells) differs a little, and represents Janet as "at the Well," instead of upstairs, and afterwards "at the Mill," and so on. A Glasgow edition gives the whole in good west-country prose, and the lover begins: "I'm come to court your dochter, Kate Mackleister!"

In the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, "Janet Jo" used to be a dramatic entertainment amongst young rustics. Suppose a party have met on a winter evening round a good peat fire, writes Chambers, and is resolved to have "Janet Jo" performed. Two undertake to personate a goodman and a goodwife; the rest a family of marriageable daughters. One of the lads—the best singer of the party—retires, and equips himself in a dress proper for representing an old bachelor in search of a wife. He comes in, bonnet in hand, bowing, and sings:—

Gude e'en to ye, maidens a', Maidens a', maidens a'; Gude e'en to ye, maidens a', Be ye or no.

I've come to court Janet jo, Janet jo, Janet jo; I've come to court Janet jo, Janet, my jo.

Gudewife sings:—

What'll ye gie for Janet jo, Janet jo, Janet jo; What'll ye gie for Janet jo, Janet, my jo?

The wooer replies:—

I'll gie ye a peck o' siller, A peck o' siller, peck o' siller; I'll gie ye a peck o' siller For Janet, my jo.

Gudewife exclaims, "Gae awa', ye auld carle!" then sings:—

Ye'se never get Janet jo, Janet jo, Janet jo; Ye'se never get Janet jo, Janet, my jo.

The wooer hereupon retires, singing a verse expressive of mortification, but soon re-enters with a re-assured air, singing:—

I'll gie ye a peck o' gowd, A peck o' gowd, peck o' gowd; I'll gie ye a peck o' gowd, For Janet, my jo.

The matron gives him a rebuff as before, and he again enters, singing an offer of "twa pecks o' gowd," which, however, is also refused. At his next entry he offers "three pecks o' gowd," at which the gudewife brightens up, and sings:—

Come ben beside Janet Jo, Janet jo, Janet jo; Ye're welcome to Janet jo, Janet, my jo.

The suitor then advances gaily to his sweetheart, and the affair ends in a scramble for kisses.

* * * * *

"The Goloshans." This is a Hogmanay play, and not confined to children alone, which for that, as well as other reasons, will not inaptly close this chapter. In some parts it was called "The Galatians," to be sure, I say was, because one never sees it now-a-days, though fifty years ago, under the one designation or the other, it was played annually by the Hogmanay guizards, who, dressed for the occasion, set it forth with deliciously unsophisticated swagger and bluster in every house they visited that had a kitchen floor broad and wide enough for the operation. It formed the material of a chap-book which was regularly on sale at the "Johnnie-a'-thing" shops in the middle of last century, though now, I suppose, a copy could scarcely be had for love or money. Sir Walter Scott, who delighted to keep up old customs, and could condescend to simple things without losing genuine dignity, invariably had a set of guizards to perform the play before his family both at Ashestiel and at Abbotsford. The dramatis personae of "The Goloshans," after the character in the title-role—who was inevitable on all occasions—differed somewhat in the various districts. Chambers gives a fairly adequate version in his Popular Rhymes of Scotland; but the fullest and best I have seen is contained in Proverbs and Proverbial Expressions, edited by "Andrew Cheviot," and recently published by Mr. Alexander Gardner, of Paisley, and which I take the liberty of quoting mainly, though part also is taken from Chambers's version. The characters are Sir Alexander; Farmer's Son; Goloshan; Wallace; Dr. Brown; and Beelzebub.

Enter Sir Alexander, and speaks:—

Haud away rocks, and haud away reels, Haud away stocks and spinning-wheels; Redd room for Gorland, and gie us room to sing, And I will show you the prettiest thing That ever was seen in Christmas time. Muckle-head and Little-wit stand ahint the door: But sic a set as we are ne'er were seen before.

Enter next Farmer's Son:—

Here come I, the farmer's son, Although I be but young sir, I've got a spirit brave. And I'll freely risk my life, My country for to save.

Goloshan appears:—

Here come I, Goloshan—Goloshan is my name, With sword and pistol by my side, I hope to win the game.

Farmer's Son:—

The game, sir, the game, sir! it is not in your power, I'll cut you into inches in less than half-an-hour. My head is made of iron, my heart is made of steel, My sword is a Ferrara that can do its duty weel.

Goloshan:—

My body is like rock, sir, my head is like a stone, And I will be Goloshan when you are dead and gone.

Enter Wallace:—

Here come I, Sir William Wallace, wight, Who shed his blood for Scotland's right; Without a right, without a reason, Here I draw my bloody weapon.

(Fights with Goloshan—the latter falls.) Farmer's Son:—

Now that young man is dead, sir, and on the ground is laid; And you shall suffer for it, I'm very much afraid.

Wallace:—

It was not me that did the deed, nor me that did the crime, 'Twas this young man behind me who drew his sword so fine.

Sir Alexander:—

Oh, you artful villain, to lay the blame on me! For my two eyes were shut, sir, when this young man did dee.

Wallace:—

How could your eyes be shut, sir, when you were looking on? How could your eyes be shut, sir, when both the swords were drawn?

Farmer's Son (to Wallace):—

How can you thus deny the deed? As I stood looking on, You drew your sword from out its sheath, and slashed his body down.

Wallace:—

If I have slain Goloshan, Goloshan I will cure, And I will make him rise and sing in less than half-an-hour; Round the kitchen, round the town, Haste and bring me Dr. Brown.

Dr. Brown enters:—

Here come I, old Dr. Brown, the foremost doctor in the town.

Wallace:—

What makes you so good, sir?

Doctor:—

Why, my travels.

Wallace:—

And where have you travelled?

Doctor:—

From Hickerty-pickerty-hedgehog, three times round the West Indies, and back to old Scotland.

Wallace:—

Is that all?

Doctor:—

No sir. I have travelled from fireside to chairside, from chairside to stoolside, from stoolside to tableside, from tableside to bedside, from bedside to press-side, and got many a lump of bread and butter from my mother; and that's the way my belly's so big.

Wallace:—

Well, what can you cure?

Doctor:—

I can cure the rurvy-scurvy, and the rumble-gumption of a man who has been seven years dead or more, and can make an old woman of sixty look like a girl of sixteen.

Wallace:—

How much would you take to cure this dead man? Would five pounds do?

Doctor (turning away):—

Five pounds! No, five pounds would not get a good kit of brose.

Wallace:—

Would ten pounds do?

Doctor:—

Yes, perhaps ten pounds would do—- that, and a pint of wine. I have a bottle of inky-pinkie in my pocket. (Approaches Goloshan.) By the hocus-pocus and the magical touch of my little finger; heigh ho! start up, Jack, and sing!

Goloshan (rises and sings):—

Oh, once I was dead, sir, but now I am alive, And blessed be the doctor that made me revive; We'll all join hands, and never fight no more, We'll all be good fellows, as we have been before.

All four:—

We'll all shake hands and agree, and never fight no more, We'll all be like brothers, as we were once before; God bless the master of this house, the mistress fair likewise, And all the pretty children that round the table rise. Go down into your cellar and see what you can find, Your barrels being not empty, we hope you will prove kind; We hope you will prove kind, with whisky and with beer, We wish you a Merry Christmas, likewise a good New Year.

Enter Beelzebub (for the collection):—

Here come I, Old Beelzebub, over my shoulder I carry a club, And in my hand a frying-pan. Am not I a jolly old man? It's money I want, and money I crave, If ye don't give me money I'll sweep ye to your grave.

Old Beelzebub's appeal not being resisted (for who might dare to resist such?), the picturesque players retire, and proceed from thence merrily to occupy another stage.

* * * * *

Mr. Sandys, it may be noted, in his elegant volume of Christmas Carols (1833), transcribes a play called "St. George," which still is, or used to be, acted at the New Year in Cornwall, exactly after the manner of our Scottish play of "Goloshan" which it resembles as much as various versions of "Goloshan" in Scotland resemble each other. The leading characters, besides St. George himself and the Dragon, which is twice killed, are a Turkish knight and the King of Egypt. It is curious thus, as Dr. Chambers remarks, to find one play, with unimportant variations, preserved traditionally by the common people in parts of the island so distant from each other, and in many respects so different.

It is curious further, and of much interest to note, that in these singing-games, if nowhere else, the country and the city child, the children of the mansion and the children of the alley, meet all, beautifully, on common ground. And, how the out-door ones lie dormant for spaces, and spring simultaneously into action in widely separated parts—town and country alike—is a problem which may not be easily solved. It seems to us that, like the songs of birds, they belong to certain seasons, and are suggested, each in its turn, or class by class, by the feeling in the air. But mark, I say only seems, for who may dogmatize on such matters!



CHILDREN'S SONGS AND BALLADS.

Not the more exalted songs of child life here—not "Willie Winkie," and "Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large volume—but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These rude old favourites, too, with slight comment—little being required. And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of honour—a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young, than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself.



COCK ROBIN.

Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, With my little eye, I saw him die.

Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish, With my little dish, I caught his blood.

Who'll make his shroud? I, said the Beetle, With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud.

Who'll carry him to his grave? I, said the Kite, If it's not in the night, I'll carry him to his grave.

Who'll dig his grave? I, said the Owl, With my spade and shovel, I'll dig his grave.

Who'll carry the link? I, said the Linnet, I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link.

Who'll be chief mourner? I, said the Dove, I'll mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner.

Who'll sing the psalm? I, said the Thrush, As he sat on a bush, I'll sing the psalm.

Who'll be the parson? I, said the Rook, With my little book, I'll be the parson.

Who'll be the clerk? I, said the Lark, If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk.

Who'll toll the bell? I, said the Bull, Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell.

And all the little birds Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, When they heard the bell toll For poor Cock Robin.

And of Cock Robin again, no less captivating has been the ballad celebrating his wedding with little Jenny Wren. Though why with a lady of the Wren family, must always strike naturalists as an absurdity; and, I suppose, we may not ask how it was the banns were not forbidden, since the Messrs. Wren, with the children, and the whole creation of birds—with the single exception of a blackguard cuckoo—have jubilantly acquiesced in the nuptials.



THE MARRIAGE OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN.

It was a merry time, When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she dressed, And so sweetly as she sung.

Robin Redbreast lost his heart, He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said:

"My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie And drink nice currant wine.

"I'll dress you like a goldfinch, Or like a peacock gay; So, if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day."

Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob— I take your offer kind.

"Cherry pie is very good, So is currant wine; But I'll wear my russet gown And never dress too fine."

Robin rose up early, At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house To sing a roundelay.

He met the Cock and Hen, And bade the Cock declare This was his wedding day With Jenny Wren the fair.

The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbours know This was Robin's wedding day, And they might see the show.

Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be the clerk At Cock Robin's wedding.

He sang of Robin's love For little Jenny Wren; And when he came unto the end, Then he began again.

At first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band; And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand.

The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride; The Linnet, being bridesmaid, Walked by Jenny's side;

And as she was a-walking, Said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird."

The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet songs sweetly echo Through every grove and dale;

The Sparrow and the Tomtit, And many more were there; All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren the fair.

The Bullfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say: "Pray mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch dressed so gay;

"That though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell."

Then came the bride and bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast.

But Robin cheered her up; "My pretty Jen," says he, "We're going to be married. And happy we shall be."

"Oh," then says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay:

"Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!"

"And you will have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life!"

"And you will have him Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily."

Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the lark aloud did sing:

"Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide!"

The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known.

They had a cherry pie, Besides some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine.

Now they all sat or stood, To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think.

They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair; Cock Robin the bridegroom, And Jenny the fair.

The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place For a mile around to ring.

The concert it was fine, And every birdie tried Who best should sing for Robin And Jenny Wren the bride.

When in came the Cuckoo, And made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny, And pulled her about.

Cock Robin was angry, And so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry His bow and his arrow.

His aim then he took, But he took it not right, His skill was not good, Or he shot in a fright;

For the Cuckoo he missed, But Cock Robin he killed! And all the birds mourned That his blood was so spilled.

Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a title, but we will call it



THE NORTH WIND.

The North wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the Robin do then, poor thing?

He will sit in the barn, And keep himself warm, With his little head under his wing, poor thing!

It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse—though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike—for the young so soon grow into the old, alas!—there are no compositions in the world better secured for the honour and glory of immortal fame. They have not been very often printed, I have said—not often in recent years, at least—and the reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed necessary to set out in print what everybody knows so well by heart. It must be refreshing for the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to the ear, and I make no apology—yea, I hope to be thanked for their appearance in this little book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be



LITTLE BO-PEEP.

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And doesn't know where to find them; Let them alone, and they'll come home, Bringing their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep. And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed. For they'd left their tails behind them.

It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray Under a meadow hard by, That she espied their tails, side by side, All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks went stump-o; And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should, To tack again each to its rump-o.

The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop—whether by malice aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge—has never been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often just another word for charm.

We will now have the curious tale of "The House that Jack Built." In no sense a curious house, perhaps, but famous because of the fortuitous events which issued in regular sequence from the simple fact of the builder having stored a quantity of malt within its walls. It is told best with the accompaniment of pictorial illustrations, but here these are not available.



THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built

This is the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the cock that crowed in the morn And waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

It has been a satisfaction to many a little boy, I am sure, to feel that he was not, by many miles, so simple as that most abject of all simpletons, familiar to him as—



SIMPLE SIMON.

Simple Simon met a pie-man, Going to the fair; Said Simple Simon to the pie-man, "Let me taste your ware."

Says the pie-man, "Simple Simon, Show me first your penny;" Said Simple Simon to the pie-man, "Indeed, I have not any."

Simple Simon went a-fishing, For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail!

Some may follow without comment.



OLD MOTHER HUBBARD.

Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard, To get her poor doggie a bone; When she got there, the cupboard was bare, And so the poor doggie had none.

She went to the baker's to buy him some bread, But when she came back the poor doggie was dead.

She went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin, And when she came back the doggie was laughing.

She went to the butcher's to get him some tripe, And when she came back he was smoking a pipe.

She went to the fish-shop to buy him some fish, And when she came back he was washing the dish.

She went to the tavern for white wine and red, And when she came back doggie stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's to buy him a hat, And when she came back he was feeding the cat.

She went to the tailor's to buy him a coat, And when she came back he was riding the goat.

She went to the barber's to buy him a wig, And when she came back he was dancing a jig.

She went to the draper's to buy him some linen, And when she came back the good dog was spinning.

She went to the hosier's to buy him some hose, And when she came back he was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsey, the dog made a bow, The dame said, "Your servant," the dog said, "Bow-wow."



OLD MOTHER GOOSE.

Old Mother Goose, when She wanted to wander, Would ride through the air On a very fine gander.

Mother Goose had a house, 'Twas built in a wood, Where an owl at the door For a sentinel stood.

She had a son Jack, A plain-looking lad, Not very good, Nor yet very bad.

She sent him to market, A live goose he bought, "Here, mother," says he, "It won't go for nought."

Jack's goose and the gander Grew very fond, They'd both eat together, Or swim in one pond.

Jack found, one fine morning, As I have been told, His goose had laid him An egg of pure gold.

Jack rode to his mother The news for to tell; She called him a good boy, And said it was well.

Jack sold his gold egg To a rascally Jew, Who cheated him out of The half of his due.

Then Jack went a-courting A lady so gay, As fair as the lily, And sweet as the May.

The Jew and the Squire Came behind his back And began to belabour The sides of poor Jack.

And then the gold egg Was thrown in the sea, When Jack he jumped in And got it presently.

The Jew got the goose, Which he vowed he would kill, Resolving at once His pockets to fill.

Jack's mother came in And caught the goose soon, And mounting its back, Flew up to the moon.



THE OLD WOMAN AND HER PIG.

An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. "What," she said, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market and buy a little pig." As she was coming home she came to a stile. The piggy would not go over the stile. She went a little farther, and she met a dog, so she said to the dog:—

"Dog, dog, bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the dog would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a stick. So she said:—

"Stick, stick, beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the stick would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a fire. So she said:—

"Fire, fire, burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile; And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the fire would not.

She went a little farther, and she met some water. So she said:—

"Water, water, quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the water would not.

She went a little farther, and she met an ox. So she said:—

"Ox, ox, drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the ox would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a butcher. So she said:—

"Butcher, butcher, kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the butcher would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a rope. So she said:—

"Rope, rope, hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the rope would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a rat. So she said:—

"Rat, rat, gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the rat would not.

She went a little farther, and she met a cat. So she said:—

"Cat, cat, kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the old woman to the cow, and said:—

"Cow, cow, give me a saucer of milk; Cat won't kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the cow said to her, "If you will go to yonder haymakers, and fetch me a wisp of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away went the old woman to the haymakers, and said:—

"Haymakers, give me a wisp of hay; Cow won't give milk; Cat won't kill rat; Rat won't gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Piggy won't get over the stile, And I shan't get home to-night!"

But the haymakers said to her, "If you will go to yonder stream, and fetch us a bucket of water, we'll give you the hay." So away the old woman went. But when she got to the stream, she found the bucket was full of holes. So she covered the bottom with pebbles, and then filled the bucket with water, and she went back with it to the haymakers, and they gave her a wisp of hay.

As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat. As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk—

The cat began to kill the rat; The rat began to gnaw the rope; The rope began to hang the butcher; The butcher began to kill the ox; The ox began to drink the water; The water began to quench the fire; The fire began to burn the stick; The stick began to beat the dog; The dog began to bite the pig; The little pig in a fright jumped over the stile; So the old woman got home that night!



A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO.

A Frog he would a-wooing go, Heigho, says Roly! Whether his mother would let him or no, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

So off he set in his coat and hat, Heigho, says Roly! And on the way he met a Rat, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mr. Rat, will you go with me?" Heigho, says Roly! "Good Mrs. Mousie for to see?" With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

When they came to the door of Mousie's hole, Heigho, says Roly! They gave a loud knock, and they gave a loud call, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?" Heigho, says Roly! "Oh yes, dear sirs, I am sitting to spin," With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us some beer?" Heigho, says Roly! "For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer," With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

"Please, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song?" Heigho, says Roly! "But let it be something that's not very long," With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

But while they were making a terrible din, Heigho, says Roly! The cat and her kittens came tumbling in, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

The cat she seized Mr. Rat by the crown, Heigho, says Roly! The kittens they pulled Mrs. Mousie down, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright, Heigho, says Roly! He took up his hat and he wished them good-night, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

But as Froggy was crossing over a brook, Heigho, says Roly! A lily-white duck came and swallowed him up, With a roly-poly, gammon and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Roly!

There are various versions of the above narrative of a sadly disastrous expedition, in English and in Scotch alike. The Ballad Book, a curious collection, of which thirty copies only were printed, in 1824, embraces one beginning:—

There lived a Puddy in a well, Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone; There lived a Puddy in a well, Cuddy alone and I. There lived a Puddy in a well, And a Mousie in a mill; Kickmaleerie, cowden down, Cuddy alone and I.

Puddy he'd a-wooin' ride, Cuddy alone, Cuddy alone; Sword and pistol by his side, Cuddy alone and I. Puddy came to the Mousie's home; "Mistress Mouse, are you within?" Kickmaleerie, cowden down, Cuddy alone and I.

And which goes forward narrating the almost identically same story: which story, homely and simple as it appears, is of surprising antiquity. In 1580, the Stationers' Company licensed "a ballad of a most strange wedding of the frogge and the mouse;" and that same ballad Dr. Robert Chambers printed from a small quarto manuscript of poems formerly in the possession of Sir Walter Scott, dated 1630. This very old version begins:—

Itt was ye frog in ye wall, Humble doune, humble doune; And ye mirrie mouse in ye mill, Tweidle, tweidle, twino.

And the closing lines tell that

Quhen ye supper they war at, The frog, mouse, and evin ye ratt.

There com in Gib our cat, And chaught ye mouse evin by ye back.

Then did they all seperat, And ye frog lap on ye floor so flat.

Then in com Dick our drack, And drew ye frog evin to ye lack.

Ye rat ran up ye wall, A goodlie companie, ye devall goe with all.

Of meaner antiquity, perhaps, but no less a favourite with the young, is the amusing ditty of



THE CARRION CROW.

A Carrion Crow sat on an oak, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, Watching a tailor shape his coat; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!

Wife, bring me my old bent bow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, That I may shoot yon carrion crow; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do!

The tailor shot, and missed his mark, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do, But shot the pig right through the heart; Sing he, sing ho, the old carrion crow, Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, eye ding do.

The next, though it has engaged the attention of the adult population, is a prime old-time favourite with the children as well.



MY PRETTY MAID.

"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?" "I am going a-milking, sir," she said.

"May I go with you, my pretty maid?" "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.

"What is your father, my pretty maid?" "My father's a farmer, sir," she said.

"What is your fortune, my pretty maid?" "My face is my fortune, sir," she said.

"Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid." "Nobody asked you, sir," she said.

The original of the following, which has delighted particularly the children of Scotland for many generations, appears with its pleasing air in Johnson's Musical Museum:—



CAN YOU SEW CUSHIONS?

O can ye sew cushions? Or can ye sew sheets? An' can ye sing ba-la-loo When the bairnie greets?

An' hee an' ba, birdie, An' hee an' ba, lamb, Ah' hee an' ba, birdie, My bonnie wee man.

Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye? Black is the life that I lead wi' ye; Owre mony o' ye, little to gie ye, Hee O, wee O, what'll I do wi' ye?

Now hush-a-ba, lammie, An' hush-a-ba, dear; Now hush-a-ba, lammie, Thy minnie is here, The wild wind is ravin', Thy minnie's heart's sair; The wild wind is ravin', An' ye dinna care.

Hee O, wee O, etc.

Sing ba-la-loo, lammie, Sing bo-la-loo, dear; Does wee lammie ken That his daddie's no here? Ye're rockin' fu' sweetly On mammie's warm knee, But daddie's a-rockin' Upon the saut sea.

Hee O, wee O, etc.

O I hung thy cradle On yon holly top, An' aye as the wind blew Thy cradle did rock. An' hush-a-ba, baby, O ba-lilly-loo; An' hee an' ba, birdie, My bonnie wee doo!

Hee O, wee O, etc.

We see continually how dear to the songs of childlife are the mention of birds and all things sweet in the round of everyday life. Here now—



HUSH-A-BA BIRDIE, CROON.

Hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon, Hush-a-ba birdie, croon; The sheep are gane to the silver wood, And the coos are gane to the broom, broom, And the coos are gane to the broom.

And it's braw milking the kye, kye, It's braw milking the kye; The birds are singing, the bells are ringing, The wild deer come galloping by, by, The wild deer come galloping by.

And hush-a-ba birdie, croon, croon, Hush-a-ba birdie, croon; The gaits are gane to the mountain hie, And they'll no be hame till noon, And they'll no be hame till noon.

A prime favourite—none excelling it—has been



DANCE TO YOUR DADDIE.

Dance to your daddie, My bonnie laddie, Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb; And ye'll get a fishie, In a little dishie, Ye'll get a fishie when the boat comes hame!

Dance to your daddie, My bonnie laddie, Dance to your daddie, my bonnie lamb! And ye'll get a coatie, And a pair o' breekies— Ye'll get a whippie and a supple Tam!

By the bye, as touching the lullaby order of these songs, it is interesting to note that, no matter of what age or nation they may be, they are all but regularly made up on precisely the same plan. There is first the appeal to the child to slumber, or to rest and be happy; then comes the statement that the father is away following some toilsome occupation; and the promise succeeds that he will soon return laden with the fruits of his labour, and all will be well. We have been seeing, and will see again, how the Scottish go. The Norwegian mother sings:—

Row, row to Baltnarock, How many fish caught in the net? One for father and one for mother. One for sister and one for brother.

Even the Hottentot mother promises her child that its "dusky sire" shall bring it "shells from yonder shore," where he has probably been occupied in turning turtles over on their broad backs. The Breton song goes:—

Fais dado, pauvre, p'tit Pierrot. Papa est sur l'eau Qui fait des bateaux Pour le p'tit Pierrot.

The Swedish cradle song follows the almost universal custom. It runs (in English):—

Hush, hush; baby mine! Pussy climbs the big green pine, Ma turns the mill stone, Pa to kill the pig has gone.

The Danish does not prove an exception:—

Lullaby, sweet baby mine! Mother spins the thread so fine; Father o'er the bridge has gone, Shoes he'll buy for little John.

The North German cradle song is:—

Schlaf Kindchen, schlaf! Dein Vater hut't die schaf; Dein Mutter schuttelts Baumelien, Da fallt herab ein Tramelein, Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf!

Which, being done into English, runs:—

Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father guards the sheep; The mother shakes the dreamland tree, And from it falls sweet dreams for thee. Sleep, baby, sleep.

The simplest and crudest of these, we may be sure, has lulled millions to sleep, and by virtue of that association is worth more than many quartos of recent verse deliberately composed with the view of engaging the attention of the nursery circle. How many volumes of the newer wares, for instance, might be accepted in exchange for



KATIE BEARDIE.

Katie Beardie had a coo, Black and white about the mou'; Wasna that a dentie coo? Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a hen, Cackled but an' cackled ben; Wasna that a dentie hen? Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a cock That could spin a gude tow rock; Wasna that a dentie cock? Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a grice, It could skate upon the ice; Wasna that a dentie grice? Dance, Katie Beardie!

Katie Beardie had a wean, That was a' her lovin' ain; Wasna that a dentie wean? Dance, Katie Beardie!

Yet, there is tolerable proof extant that the above dates from at least the beginning of the seventeenth century. "Katherine Beardie," anyway, is the name affixed to an air in a manuscript musical collection which belonged to the Scottish poet, Sir William Mure, of Rowallan, written, presumably, between the years 1612 and 1628. The same tune, under the name of "Kette Bairdie," also appears in a similar collection which belonged to Sir John Skene of Hallyards, supposed to have been written about 1629. Further, so well did Sir Walter Scott know that this was a popular dance during the reign of King James VI., as Mr. Dawney points out, that he introduces it in the Fortunes of Nigel, with this difference, that it is there called "Chrichty Bairdie," a name not precisely identical with that here given; but as Kit is a diminutive of Christopher, it is not difficult to perceive how the two came to be confounded. Old as it certainly is—and older by a deal it may be than these presents indicate—it maintains yet the charm of youth—delighting all with its lightly tripping numbers. No less does—



THE MILLER'S DOCHTER.

There was a miller's dochter, She wadna want a baby, O; She took her father's grey hound An' row'd it in a plaidie, O.

Singing, Hush-a-ba! hush-a-ba! Hush-a-ba, my baby, O! An 'twere na for you lang beard, I wad kiss your gabbie, O!

While bedding operations have been in progress no song, surely, has been more welcome and effective than



HAP AND ROW.

Hap and row, hap and row, Hap and row the feetie o't; I never kent I had a bairn Until I heard the greetie o't.

The wife put on the wee pan To boil the bairn's meatie, O, When down fell a cinder And burn't a' its feetie, O.

Hap and row, hap and row, Hap and row the feetie o't; I never kent I had a bairn Until I heard the greetie o't.

Sandy's mither she came in As sune's she heard the greetie o't, She took the mutch frae aff her head And rowed it round the feetie o't.

Hap and row, hap and row, etc.

In about equal favour stands



HOW DAN, DILLY DOW.

How dan, dilly dow, Hey dow, dan, Weel were ye're minnie. An' ye were a man.

Ye wad hunt an' hawk, An' hand her o' game, An' water your daddie's horse When he cam' hame.

How dan, dilly dow, Hey dan, floors, Ye'se lie i' your bed Till eleven hours.

If at eleven hours You list to rise, Ye'se hae your dinner dight In a new guise.

Laverocks' legs, And titlins' taes, And a' sic dainties My mannie shall hae.

A cheery and comforting lilt, indeed, with its promise of plenty. Much superior to the next, which bears in its bosom the hollow and unwelcome ring of a "toom girnal"—a sound no child should ever know. It is yet a lilt familiar to the nursery:—



CROWDIE.

Oh, that I had ne'er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I've gotten wife and bairns, They cry Crowdie! ever mair.

Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, Three times crowdie in a day; Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

Quoting the stanzas as an old ballad in a letter to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1795, the poet Burns wrote:—"There had much need to be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of Fate, even in all the vigour of manhood, as I am—such things happen every day—Gracious God! what would become of my little flock? 'Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on his death-bed, taking an ever-lasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I—but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!" So might we all. Then, away with it, and let us have a more lightsome spring.



WHISTLE, WHISTLE, AULD WIFE.

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife. An' ye'se get a hen." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye wad gi'e me ten."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a cock." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye'd gi'e me a flock."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, And ye'se get a goun." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "For the best ane i' the toun."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a coo." "I wadna whistle," quo' the wife, "Though ye wad gi'e me two."

"Whistle, whistle, auld wife, An' ye'se get a man." "Wheeple-whauple" quo' the wife, "I'll whistle as I can."

Sung with vocal mimicry, the above makes a strikingly effective entertainment.

The song of "The Three Little Pigs" embraces a palpable moral, which not children alone would be the better for taking to heart. I wish I could sing it for you, my reader, as I have heard Mr. Tom Hunt, the well-known animal painter, sing it in social circles in Glasgow:—



THE THREE LITTLE PIGS.

A jolly old sow once lived in a sty, And three little piggies had she; And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!" While the little ones said "wee! wee!"

And she waddled about saying, "grumph! grumph! grumph!" While the little ones said "wee! wee!"

"My dear little piggies," said one of the brats, "My dear little brothers," said he, "Let us all for the future say, 'grumph! grumph! grumph!' 'Tis so childish to say, 'wee! wee!'"

Let us all, etc.

These three little piggies grew skinny and lean, And lean they might very well be, For somehow they couldn't say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" And they wouldn't say "wee! wee!"

For somehow, etc.

So after a time these little pigs died, They all died of fe-lo-de-see, From trying too hard to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When they only could say "wee! wee!"

From trying, etc.

A moral there is to this little song, A moral that's easy to see: Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When you only can say "wee! wee!" Don't try when you're young to say "grumph! grumph! grumph!" When you only can say "wee! wee!"

Another delectable song for children—also of a subtly didactic character—is



COWE THE NETTLE EARLY.

Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle: Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle early.

Cowe it laich, cowe it sune, Cowe it in the month o' June; Stoo it ere it's in the bloom, Cowe the nettle early.

Cowe it by the old wa's, Cowe it where the sun ne'er fa's, Stoo it when the day daws, Cowe the nettle early.

Auld heuk wi' no ae tooth, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle; Auld gluive wi' leather loof, Cowe the nettle early.

The following curious song, which Mrs. Burns, the wife of the poet, was fond of crooning to her children, is not yet without some vogue outwith the printed page—though mainly in this verse, the place of which, by the bye, would be difficult to fix in the song as printed by Herd:—

The robin cam' to the wren's door, And keekit in, and keekit in: O, blessings on your bonnie pow, Wad ye be in, wad ye be in? I wadna let you lie thereout, And I within, and I within, As lang's I hae a warm clout, To row ye in, to row ye in.

To students of Burns it will ever be of prime interest from the fact that its air, as played by Miss Jessie Lewars to the poet only a few days before his death, supplied the hint for his most tender and touching lyric, "O Wert them in the Cauld Blast." Herd prints it thus:—



THE WREN'S NEST.

The wren scho lyes in care's bed, In care's bed, in care's bed; The wren scho lyes in care's bed, Wi' meikle dule and pyne, O.

When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Redbreist, Redbreist; When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Wi' succar-saps and wine, O.

Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, Taste o' this, taste o' this; Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, It's succar saps and wine, O?

Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Robin, Robin: Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Though it were ne'er sae fine, O.

And where's the ring that I gied ye, That I gied ye, that I gied ye: And where's the ring that I gied ye, Ye little cutty-quean, O?

I gied it till an ox-ee, An ox-ee, an ox-ee; I gied it till an ox-ee, A true sweetheart o' mine, O.

We began with the robin in this, I hope, not wearisome but entertaining Melange of child-songs. We have never, indeed, got at any time far away from the lively and interesting little fellow; and, that being so, perhaps no item could more fittingly close the series than the very old song of



ROBIN REDBREAST'S TESTAMENT.

Gude-day now, bonnie Robin, How long have you been here? I've been bird about this bush This mair than twenty year!

But now I am the sickest bird That ever sat on brier; And I wad mak' my testament, Gudeman, if ye wad hear.

Gae tak' this bonnie neb o' mine, That picks upon the corn; And gie't to the Duke o' Hamilton To be a hunting-horn.

Gae tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my neb; And gi'e to the Lady o' Hamilton To fill a feather-bed.

Gae tak' this gude richt leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Tay; It will be a post and pillar gude— Will neither bow nor gae.

And tak' this other leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Weir; It will be a post and pillar gude— Will neither bow nor steer.

Gae tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my tail: And gie to the lads o' Hamilton To be a barn-flail.

And tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my breast: And gie to ony bonnie lad Will bring to me a priest.

Now in there came my Lady Wren Wi' mony a sigh and groan: O what care I for a' the lads If my ain lad be gone!

Then Robin turned him roundabout, E'en like a little king; Go; pack ye out o' my chamber-door, Ye little cutty quean!

Robin made his testament Upon a coll of hay; And by cam' a greedy gled And snapt him a' away.



CHILDREN'S HUMOUR AND QUAINT SAYINGS.

The humours of little folks, fresh and original, and invariably of the unconscious variety, and their quaint sayings, unrehearsed and uttered regularly without regard to effect—though with merciless honesty often—form a never-palling treat; and every man and woman who has reared a family, or has had joy in the society of other people's children, has his and her own budget, comprising tit-bits at once interesting, startling, and amusing. When occasion has saved us from the foolishly doting parent who is everlastingly prosing about the very clever things his own little Johnnie has said or done, I have seldom found greater enjoyment of a mixed company than when the queer sayings of children went round the board, and we had "recollections," by suggestion, of things which perhaps had been better left unsaid, as also of things which had been more agreeably expressed if differently worded; yet all so honestly set forth that even the "victims" could not help but enjoy them in some measure. Children accept all statements so implicitly, and, with their quick-working wits, they reason so straight-forwardly, that the application when voiced comes at times with a bang sufficient to take one's breath away. Given this and that, however, an application is unavoidable. As lief set fire behind powder in a gun and expect there will be no report. A mite of five, thus, will on occasion utter a syllogism that would not discredit a professor of logic, or will put a question to which a whole college of theologians might not venture an answer. A little lady of my acquaintance who had not yet seen her fourth birthday, was one morning told by her mother that she could not get out to play—the frost was too severe. "Who makes the frost, ma?" was asked. "God, dear." "What does He make frost for?" "To kill the worms." "And why does He make worms, and has to make frost to kill them?" This was a sufficient poser, but the mother continued, "The worms have to be killed, else they would eat the roots of all the plants and flowers." The little lady reflected, then gravely asked, "But does God kill the wee chicky worms that never eated any roots?" The mother did not answer, but looked now even more grave than the child. The same little miss was listening one evening to a newspaper report being read, which told how a man in a storm of wind had been blown with a ladder from a house-top in Glasgow, and was killed. "Who makes the wind?" she asked sharply. She was told. "And does God make the bad winds that kills the mans?" was demanded. There was no reply; but she read the silence as meaning "yes," and turning to leave the room she muttered more to herself than otherwise, "When I die and go to Heaven I'll not sit beside God." When repeating the Pater-noster one evening she stuck at the first sentence, and wanted to know "If God is our Father in Heaven who is our Mother in Heaven?" But the mother was saved this time by the interposition of the little one's elder brother, who, with stern emphasis, exclaimed, "Stupid! God's wife, of course." A little boy-relative of that girl returned from school one day, while he was but a pupil in the infant department, and stepping proudly up to where his father was seated, "Pa," he exclaimed, "I am the cleverest boy in the class." "Indeed," returned the parent, "I am proud to hear that; but who said it?" "The teacher." "If the teacher said so, it surely must be true. What did she say, though?" "She said, 'Stand up the cleverest boy in the class,' and I stood up." The same little fellow was on the way to school with a friend one morning, towards the end of December, when the two were attracted by the appearance of a sweep on the chimney of a neighbouring building. "I ken what that man's doin' up there," he asserted; "he's sweepin' the lums for Santa Claus to get doon." And that recalls the story I once heard of a little man in the Carse of Gowrie. It happened on an evening towards the close of the year, as he was preparing for bed, and was sitting by the fire with his first liberated stocking in his hand, that he looked over to his mother, and "Mither," he asked, "will I get a pair o' new stockin's before Christmas?" "Maybe, laddie; but what gars ye speir?" "Because"—and he spoke mournfully, as he stuck his fingers through a large hole in the toe—"if Santa Claus puts onything intil thir anes, it'll fa' oot." How cleverly they reason, you see! "Bring me a drink o' water, Johnnie," was the order delivered by a Perthshire farmer to his little son one day a good many years ago. The boy went to do as he was asked, but the water-stoup had been nearly empty, and, as he was approaching his parent with the liquid, he paused and peered doubtfully into the hand-vessel, then, as if suddenly inspired by a happy thought, "Will I put meal in't, father?" he asked. "No." "Oh, weel, then"—and he turned to go back—"ye'll need to wait till somebody gangs to the well." But to return to children I have known for yet one or two more illustrations. I was at a tea-table one afternoon where the company was mostly composed of the smaller fry, and an incident, important to all, was mentioned, which had happened some seven or eight years before. Several of the older children declared, truthfully, that they remembered it quite well. "So do I mind o' it," asserted a little fellow about five. "How could you mind o' it?" questioned scornfully an older brother; "you wasna born at the time." "I ken," as scornfully returned the younger theologian; "I was dust at the time; but I mind o' it weel enough." Here is the verbatim copy of a letter written since by the hand of that same boy—in a country village in Perthshire—where he has been staying continuously for several years, and addressed to his father in Glasgow:—"Dear Pa, The Rabbits is all dead. Worried with dogs. The gold fishes is dead. Died with the cold. The cat has had kittens, four of them, and the rest of us is all well." The remark of a prominent Scottish novelist who recently passed the epistle through his hands was—"That's style, the most crisp and picturesque. And then—'the rest of us'—how beautifully innocent!"

The little girl of a friend of mind—while still of very tender years—was first taken to church by her aunt. On the way home, and soon after leaving the portals of the sacred edifice, she looked up solemnly in her guardian's face, and, "Auntie," she asked, "was yon God on the mantel-piece?" She referred doubtless to the minister in the pulpit. Don't think of irreverence, my reader! The child, in its atmosphere of perfect innocence, knows not the word. And bear that in mind further when I tell you of a little boy and girl—both of whom I know well—who were having a walk with me one Sunday in early Autumn, when suddenly a railway train appeared in view. A train on Sunday! They were staggered by the sight; and the boy demanded to know why it should be there. "Oh, I know," exclaimed the girl, after some reflection; "it'll be God coming back from his holidays." The question, "Can prayer be answered?" may be often discussed by grown-up minds. It is never raised by the children. No doubts trouble them in that relation. They are quite certain they will get what they ask for. Perfect confidence in that alone could have made it possible for a certain little miss, who, when being put to bed in a tired condition, and asked to say her prayer, began:—

"This night I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord——"

then gave a long, loud yawn, and added, "Oh God, I am awfully sleepy—you know the rest"—making thus, in her rude simplicity, a finely trustful and beautiful prayer. "Give us each day our daily bread," was the honest petition of a little fellow—who, however, recalling probably some recent violent experiences, immediately added—"but dinna let our Lizzie bake it." An elaborately-trained little fellow who had nightly to pray for blessings on "mamma, and papa, grandpapa, and grandmamma," and all his uncles, his aunts, and his cousins, committing each by name, after exhausting the catalogue one evening, heaved a heavy sigh and exclaimed wearily, "Oh, dear, I wish these people would pray for themselves, for I am so tired of praying for them all!"

A little girl, whose baby brother had died, was told that he had gone to Heaven, and that night she refused to pray—"Take me to Heaven for Jesus' sake"—because, as she said; "I don't want to go to Heaven, I want to stay here, with ma, and pa, and dolly." Were all prayers as honest, many of them, I suspect, would be much shorter than they are.

I have heard of a little boy who was continually being told that he should be good.

"And if I am gooder, and gooder," he asked, "what will I be?"

"Oh, you will be a little angel."

"But I don't want to be an angel," he retorted; "I want to be an engine-driver." They are never else than frank in their statements. A mother who suffers from severe headaches, said to her little girl about eight, one day not long ago, "What would you do, Lottie dear, if your darling mother was taken away from you—if she died?" "Well, mother," was the little one's startling answer, "I suppose we would cry at first—then we would bury you, and then we would come home and take all the money out of your pocket." Now, while it is possible that something else might also be done, it is almost certain—yea, it is certain, without doubt—that all these ceremonials, however reluctantly, would, in turn, be duly performed.

From a story bearing on death to one relating to birth is a transition not so unnatural as may at the first blush appear. And births are affairs ever of prime interest to children. Not many years ago it happened in a village in Perthshire that twins arrived in a family, and next day one of the little misses of the house was out on the street playing, when a neighbouring lady came up to where she was, and, "So you've got two little babies at home, Bizzie," she remarked. "Yes," responded the little one, very solemnly; "and do you know, my father was away at Edinburgh when the doctor brought them. But it was a good thing my mother was in; for if she hadna, there would have been naebody in the house but me, and I wadna have kent what to do wi' them." They tell this delightful story of the little daughter of Professor Van Dyke, of the Philadelphia University:—

"Papa, where were you born?"

"In Boston, my dear."

"Where was mamma born?"

"In San Francisco."

"And where was I born?"

"In Philadelphia."

"Well, pap, isn't it funny how we three people got together?"

And that now recalls another which Mrs. Keeley, the actress, tells of a tradesman's little boy who was often taken to stay with his grandmother and grandfather—the latter a very feeble old man, bald and toothless. This little fellow was told that his father and mother had "bought" a nice new baby brother for him. The little man was much interested by the news, and was taken to see the new arrival. He looked at it with astonishment for a few seconds, then remarked—"Why, he's got no hair, father!" This was at once admitted. "And he's got no teeth," observed the boy again, touching another fact which could not be denied. Then a long and thoughtful pause ensued, after which the little critic (who had probably been comparing the baby with his grandfather), observed confidentially—"I'll tell you what, father; if they called him a new baby, they've taken you in—he's an old 'un!" You cannot easily get round children. And it is almost impossible to suppress them. As touching this fact an excellent story is told of our present King and his sister, the late Empress of Germany, when they were boy and girl. Lord——, who had a deformed foot, was invited to Osborne; and before his arrival the Queen and Prince Albert debated whether it would be better to warn the Prince of Wales and the Princess Royal of his physical calamity, so as to avoid embarrassing remarks, or to leave the matter to their own good feeling. The latter course was adopted. Lord —— duly arrived. The foot elicited no remark from the Royal children, and the visit passed off with perfect success. But next day the Princess Royal asked the Queen, "Where is Lord——?" "He has gone back to London, dear." "Oh, what a pity! He had promised to show Berty and me his foot!" The enfants terrible had wilily caught his lordship in the corridor, and made their own terms.

There is pleasure in telling that story were it but for the revelation it affords of how the children of Kings and Queens are animated by the same curiosities, and may act at times so like the children of the commonality. That Royalty again may be moved by the action or word of a child of common birth we have many pleasing proofs. One is pat. A late King of Prussia, while visiting in one of the villages of his dominion, was welcomed by the school children. Their sponsor made a speech for them. The King thanked them. Then, taking an orange from a plate, he asked—"To what kingdom does this belong?" "The vegetable kingdom, sire," replied a little girl. The King next took a gold coin from his pocket, and, holding it up, asked—"And to what kingdom does this belong?" "To the mineral kingdom," was the reply. "And to what kingdom do I belong then?" asked the King. The little girl coloured deeply; for she did not like to say the "animal kingdom," as he thought she would, lest His Majesty should be offended. But just then it flashed upon her mind that "God made man in His own image," and looking up with brightening eye, she said—"To God's Kingdom, sire." The King was moved. A tear stood in his eye. He placed his hand on the child's head, and said, most devoutly—"God grant that I may be accounted worthy of that Kingdom." Thus did the words of a common child, you see, move the heart of a King. But, oh, we are all the same. It is only the environment that is different. And the distinction there even is not so great as one, not knowing, may be disposed to imagine. In high and low life alike, anyway, the children, we know, are free; and all alike are susceptible of eccentricity. What a fine confession of this the Princess of Wales made not long ago when, as Duchess of York, she was addressing a Girls' Society in London. As a school-girl, she said, she disliked geography; of which, she added, she was very ignorant. Once she was set to draw an outline map of the world from memory. "On showing it to my governess," said the Princess, "she said in quite an alarmed manner—'Why, you have left out China! Don't you know where it is?' 'Yes,' I replied, very stubbornly, but very loyally, 'I know where it should be, but I am not going to put it in my map. The Queen is angry with China now, so it has no right to have a place in the world at all.'" The spirit of exclusiveness manifested by the little lady might readily be quarrelled with in some quarters; but surely the act gives promise of a Queen who, like her to whom she was loyal, will, when her glory cometh—though, may it be far distant—prove the pride of every loyal Briton!

The somersaultic cleverness by which a child will get out of an awkward situation has been often revealed, but seldom with more humour than in the two succeeding illustrations. A minister returning from church towards the manse on a Sunday, came suddenly on a boy leaning earnestly over the parapet of a bridge with a short rod and a long string having a baited hook on the far end, by which he was trying his luck in the burn beneath. "Boy," he exclaimed severely, "is this a day on which you should be catching fish?" "Wha's catchin' fish?" drawled the budding Isaac Walton; "I'm juist tryin' to droon this worm." The next boy was yet cleverer—alike in fishing and in speech. He had several trout dangling from his hand by a string when he met the minister abruptly in a quick bend of the road. There was no chance of escape; but his ready wit saved him. He walked boldly forward, and taking the first word as the two were about to meet, he dangled the trout-hand high, looked the minister square in the face, and exclaimed, "That sorts them for snappin' at flees on the Sabbath!" and passed hence, leaving his anticipated accuser flabbergasted.

Ruskin says of children: "They are forced by nature to develop their powers of invention, as a bird its feathers of flight;" and we might add, remarks another writer, "that the inventive faculty, like a bird, is apt, when fully grown, to fly away. Then, when their own imaginative resources begin to fail them, one observes children begin to read books of adventure with avidity—at the age, say, of ten or twelve years. Before that, no Rover of the Andes or Erling the Bold can equal the heroic achievements they evolve from their inner consciousness." Who, for instance, could hope to "put a patch" on the experience of those two little boys who spent a snowy day during the Christmas holidays tiger-shooting in their father's dining-room; and as one, making his cautious way among the legs of the dinner-table, for the nonce a pathless jungle, was hailed by the other with, "Any tigers there, Bill?" he answered gloriously: "Tigers? I'm knee-deep in them!"

That excellent story recalls to me another, not unlike it. Also of a Christmas time. The children had asked permission to get up a play, and it had been granted on the condition that they did it all themselves without help or hint. As the eldest was only ten they accepted the condition with alacrity, for young children hate to be interfered with and hampered by their elders. When the evening came and the family and audience had collected, the curtain was drawn back and revealed the heroine (aged nine), who stated with impassioned sobs that her husband had been in South Africa for the past three years, but that she was expecting his return. Truly enough the hero (aged ten) entered, and proceeded, after affectionate but hasty greetings, to give his wife an eloquent account of his doings, the battles he had fought, the Boers he had killed, and the honours he had won.

When he at last paused for breath, his wife rose, and taking his hand led him to the back, where a short curtain covered a recess. "I, too, dear," she said proudly, "have not been idle."

And pulling back the curtain she displayed six cradles occupied by six large baby dolls!

And that again recalls another, quite in the same line. One day a gentleman walking down a street observed a little boy seated on a doorstep. Going up to him, he said, "Well, my little chap, how is it you are sitting outside on the doorstep, when I see through the window all the other young folks inside playing games and having a good time? Why aren't you inside joining in the fun?" "I guess, stranger, that I'm in this game." replied the boy. "But how can you be, when you are out on the doorstep, and the others are all inside?" "Oh, I'm in the show right enough. You see, we're playing at being married. I'm the baby, and I'm not born yet!"

The late Dr. Norman M'cLeod—the great Norman—rejoiced in telling a story about two ragged children whom he found busy on the side of a country road one day, working with some stiffened mud, which they had carefully scraped together. "What's this you are making?" he asked. One of the children replied that it was a kirk. "A kirk! Ay, and where's the door?" "There it's." "And the pulpit?" "That's it." "And the minister?" The little one hesitated, then replied, very innocently—"We hadna dirt enough left to mak' a minister."

The minister, of course—and the weaker his character he should be the more careful—must always approach children with caution if he hopes to come out of the interview with his reputation unscathed. I have heard or read of a member of the cloth—a supreme egoist—who was visiting at a house when but the mother and her little girl—a mere child—were at home. As the self-esteemed great man was holding the mother in conversation, he noticed with pride that the child, who reposed on the hearthrug with a school-slate tilted on her knee, was making furtive glances up at his face, and returning her attention regularly to the slate, on which she kept scrawling with a pencil. When at length she stopped and looked serious, "Well, my dear," he exclaimed, "have you been trying to draw my portrait?" She did not reply, "Come," he continued, coaxingly, "you must let me see it." "Oh," interposed the proud mother, "she's awfu' clever at the drawin'." This made the minister still more eager to see the work, and he repeated his request for an exposure; but the child clutched the slate only more tightly to her breast and did not look up. "She's aye sae shy, ye ken," interceded the mother, as she reached her hand to procure the work of art by main force. It was then the little one found her tongue, and she exclaimed—"Oh, it wasna very like him, and I just put a tail till't, and ca'd it a doggie." The denouement leaves nothing to be desired.

Dean Ramsay, to whom his country owes so much for the elucidation of its characteristics, tells humorously of the elder of a kirk having found a little boy and his sister playing marbles on Sunday, and put his reproof not at all in judicious form by exclaiming—"Boy, do you know where children go who play marbles on the Sabbath-day?" Not in judicious form, truly, for the boy replied, "Ay, they gang doun to the field by the water below the brig." "No," roared out the elder, "they go to hell, and are burned." Worse than ever—for the elder—for the little fellow, really shocked, now called to his sister, "Come awa', Jeanie, here's a man swearin' awfu'."

"Among the lower orders in Scotland humour is found, occasionally, very rich in mere children," observes the Dean, "and I recollect a remarkable illustration of this early native humour occurring in a family in Forfarshire, where I used in former days to be very intimate. A wretched woman, who used to traverse the country as a beggar or tramp, left a poor half-starved little girl by the road-side near the house of my friends. Always ready to assist the unfortunate, they took charge of the child, and as she grew a little older they began to give her some education, and taught her to read. She soon made some progress in reading the Bible, and the native odd humour of which we speak began soon to show itself. On reading the passage which began 'Then David rose,' etc., the child stopped and looked up knowingly to say, 'I ken wha that was,' and being asked what she could mean, she confidently said, 'That's David Rowse the pleuchman.' And again, reading the passage where the words occur, 'He took Paul's girdle,' the child said, with much confidence, 'I ken what he took that for;' and on being asked to explain, replied at once, 'To bake his bannocks on.'"