Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, And still, below, the horrid caldron boils ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY-DISTRESS. SWEET flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, November hirples o'er the lea, And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, May He who gives the rain to pour, The bitter frost and snaw. May HE, the Friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds. But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, And from thee many a parent stem THE WHISTLE. A BALLAD. As the authentic Prose history of the WHISTLE is curious, I shall here give it.-In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table; and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lowrie of Maxweltown, ancestor to the present worthy baronet of thatname; who, |