WILLIE BREWED A PECK O' MAUT.

"This air is [Allan] Masterton's; the song, mine. The occasion of it was this: Mr. William Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation being at Moffat, honest Allan-who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton - and I went to pay Nicol a visit. We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business.” — B.

O WILLIE brewed a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to pree:
Three blither hearts that lee-lang night
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou', we're nae that fou',
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley-bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys, I trow, are we;
And monie a night we've merry been,
And monie mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;

taste

sky

She shines sae bright to wile us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa',
A cuckold, coward loon is he!
Wha last beside his chair shall fa',1
He is the king amang us three !

THE WHISTLE.

"In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James VI., 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 the last able to blow it, everybody 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

1 In Johnson's Museum —

"Wha first beside his chair shall fa'."

Evidently a mistake.

Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's." — B.

The whistle being now in the possession of Captain Riddel, Burns's neighbor at Friars' Carse, it was resolved that he should submit it to an amicable contest, involving, besides himself, two other descendants of the conqueror of the Scandinavian - namely, Mr. Fergusson of Craigdarroch, and Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, then M. P. for Dumfriesshire. The meeting was to take place at Friars' Carse on Friday the 16th of October.

A note was sent to Burns, inviting him to join the party at Carse. He immediately replied in characteristic fashion.

The king's poor blackguard slave am I,

And scarce dow spare a minute;
But I'll be with you by and bye,

Or else the devil's in it!

R. B.

can

1 Mr. C. K. Sharpe has shown from a pedigree of the Maxwelton family that the story of the toping Dane "may be regarded as a groundless fable, unless such a person came over in the train of Prince George of Denmark, the husband of our last Queen Anne, which is not very probable.” — 2d edition of Johnson's Musical Museum (1839) iv. 362.

He was, accordingly, present, if not at the dinner, at the compotation which followed; and the whole affair has been by him chronicled in the most glowing phraseology in his poem.

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth,
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish

king,

And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his

hall:

"This whistle's your challenge-to Scotland get o'er,

And drink them to hell, sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill;

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Skarr,2

Unmatched at the bottle, unconquered in war,

1 See Ossian's Caric-thura. — B.

2 The Cairn, a stream in Glencairn parish, on which Max

He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained, Which now in his house has for ages remained; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renewed.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw:

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,

Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the

man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,

"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,1 And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

welton House is situated; the Skarr, a similar mountain-rill, in the parish of Penpont; both being affluents of the Nith. 1 See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. - B.