duke!
Hoot ay! An' a rockery!
For a bonnet laird wi' a sma' kailyaird
Is naethin' but a mockery!

He dwalt far up a Heelant glen
Where the foamin' flood an' the crag is,
He dined each day on the usquebae
An' he washed it doon wi' haggis.
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Hoot ay! An' a haggis!
For that's the way that the Heelanters dae
Whaur the foamin' flood an' the crag is!

He wore a sporran an' a dirk,
An' a beard like besom bristles,
He was an elder o' the kirk
And he hated kists o' whistles!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
An' doon on kists o' whistles!
They're a' reid-heidit fowk up North
Wi' beards like besom bristles!

His hair was reid as ony rose,
His legs was lang an' bony,
He keepit a hoast an' a rubbin'-post
An' a buskit cockernony!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
An' a buskit cockernony!
Ye ne'er will ken true Heelantmen
Wha'll own they hadna ony!

An' if he met a Sassenach,
Attour in Caledonia,
He gart him lilt in a cotton kilt
Till he took an acute pneumonia!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
An' a Sassenach wi' pneumonia!
He lat him feel that the Land o' the Leal
'S nae far frae Caledonia!

Then aye afore he socht his bed
He danced the Gillie Callum,
An' wi's Kilmarnock owre his neb
What evil could befall him!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
What evil could befall him?
When he cast his buits an' soopled his cuits
Wi' a gude-gaun Gillie Callum!

But they brocht a joke, they did indeed,
Ae day for his eedification,
An' they needed to trephine his heid
Sae he deed o' the operation!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Wae's me for the operation!
For weel I wot this typical Scot
Was a michty loss to the nation!

MACFADDEN AND MACFEE.

[This ballad is of great interest, and, as far as we know, has not hitherto appeared in print. It is certainly not in Child's Collection. It was taken down from the singing of an aged man of 105 years, in Glen Kennaquhair. Internal evidence would tend to show that the incidents recorded in the ballad occurred in the seventeenth century, and that Sir Walter Scott had heard at least one verse of it. The aged singer-now, alas! no more-sang it to the air of "Barbara Allen."]

It was an' aboot the Lammas time,
In sixteen forty-three, sirs,
That there fell oot the awfu' fecht
'Twixt Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.

Macfadden, wha was gaun to kirk
Upon the morn's morn,
Had washed his kilt an' cleaned his dirk
An' combed his Sabbath sporran.

An' bein' for the time o' year
Remarkably fine weather,
These articles o' dress were laid
To air upon the heather.

Waes me! Macfee, while dandrin' owre
The bonnie braes o' Lorne,
Maun gang an' pit his muckle fit
Upon Macfadden's sporran.

A piece o' carelessness like this
The brichtest heart would sadden,
An' when he saw the caitiff deed
It fair gaed owre Macfadden.

For he was shavin' at the time,
An' when the sicht he saw, sir,
Wi' rage he shook an' nearly took
His neb aff wi' his raazor.

A while he swore and staunched the gore
An' ere Macfee got ae lick,
Macfadden cursed him heid an' heels
In comprehensive Gaelic.

Syne when his breath was a' but gane,
An' when he couldna say more,
He lat a muckle Heelant yell
An' at him wi' his claymore.

What sweeter sound could warrior hear
Unless it was the daddin'
That echoed oot when'er Macfee
Got hame upon Macfadden?

Nae sweeter soond I weel could ween,
Exceppin' it micht be, sirs,
The soond that hurtled oot when'er
Macfadden hit Macfee, sirs.

An awfu' fecht it was to see,
A fecht baith fell an' dour, sirs,
For ere the tuilzie weel began
The glen was fu' o' stour, sirs.

An awfu' fecht, again I say't,
And on each auld clay biggin',
The freends o' baith, like hoodie craws,
Were roostin' on the riggin'.

And aye they buckled till't wi' birr;
In combat sair an' grievous,
They glanced like lightnin' up Strathyre
An' thundered doon Ben Nevis.

Wha won the fecht, or whilk ane lost,
Was hid frae mortal e'e, sirs,
Nane saw the fearsome end o' baith
Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.

But still they say, at break o' day,
Upon the braes o' Lorne,
Ye'll hear the ghaistly rustlin' o'
Macfadden's Sabbath sporran.

TAM AND THE LEECHES.

I.
Faith, there's a hantle queer complaints
To cheenge puir sinners into saints,
An' mony divers ways o' deein'
That doctors hae a chance o' seein'.
The Babylonian scartit bricks
To tell his doots o' Death's dark tricks,
The Roman kentna hoo 'twas farin'
Across the ferry rowed by Charon,
An' readin' doonwards through the ages
The tale's the same in a' their pages,
Eternal grum'lin' at the load
We hae to bear alang Life's road,
Yet, when we're fairly at the bit,
Awfu', maist awfu sweer to flit,
Praisin' the name o' ony drug
The doctor whispers in oor lug
As guaranteed to cure the evil,
To haud us here an' cheat the Deevil.
For gangrels, croochin' in the strae,
To leave this warld are oft as wae
As the prood laird o' mony an acre,
O' temporal things a keen partaker.

II.
Noo a' this leads up to my tale
O' what befell puir Tam MacPhail,
A dacent miner chiel in Fife
Wha led a maist exemplar' life,
An' ne'er abused himsel' wi' liquor,
But took it canny-like an' siccar.
Aye when he cast his wet pit-breeks,
Tam had a gless that warm'd his cheeks;
For as it trickled owre his craigie,
He held it wardit aff lumbaigy.
It wasna that he liked the dram,
'Twas pure needcessity wi' Tam!
But twa years syne-or was it three?-
Tam thocht that he was gaun to dee,
An' Faith! they've often gar'd me grew
By tellin' what I'll tell to you.

III.
The early tatties had come in
When Tammas's besettin' sin,
A love o' a' this warld's gude things
An' a' the pleesures eatin' brings,
Gar'd him hae sic a bad mischeef
It fleggit him ayont belief!
Pay-Saturday it was, I mind,
An' Jean, intendin' to be kind,
Had biled the firstlins o' her yaird
(For naethin' else Tam wud hae sair'd),
Sae when they cam' frae Jean's clean pat,
Altho' they seemed a trifle wat,
Tam in his hunger ate a meal
That wud hae staw'd the big black Deil,
Syne at his cutty had a draw,
Syne gantit wi' wide-open jaw,
An' aince his heid was on the cod,
He sune was in the land o' Nod.

IV.
But when the knock had chappit four
Tam had to rise an' get attour,
For in his bed he couldna' bide
He'd sic a steer in his inside!
The granes o'm waukent faithfu' Jean.
An' then began a bonny scene!
A parritch poultice first she tries,
Het plates on plates she multiplies,
But ilka time his puddens rum'les
A' owre the place Tam rows an' tum'les,
For men in sic-like situations,
Gude kens hae gey sma' stock o' patience!
Yet fast the pain grows