class="stanza">

———————In a triumphal car,

Round the Town-house of Berwick,

The Genius of Tweed

Drove the Genius of Scotland,

From Berwick to town, on a mouthful of porter

She begg'd at a door of a generous ostler.

The Editor has now completed this arduous undertaking, in which his sole object has been to rescue from oblivion these remarkable relics; and although so many years have been sacrificed without the prospect of a corresponding return for the laborious exertion bestowed—severer than was at first anticipated—he has steadfastly brought the work to a conclusion under circumstances of considerable difficulty and discouragement. In conclusion, he has only to observe, that it has all along been his anxious study to furnish, in a scrupulously faithful and accurate manner, an exact copy of the text, without using even the slightest liberty with the masculine phraseology of the original.

December, 1833.

THE

HUBBLE-SHUE.

DEDICATED

TO THE

HONOURABLE ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY.

THE

HUBBLE-SHUE.

N.

'Tis false—'tis a mistake—there's not one word of truth in it.

M.

Never was a man so astonished—if he had been shot out of the mouth of a cannon, he could not have been more confounded.

Enter Lady Gundie.

Good God!—there is not one great name in the whole town that is not in her list.

N.

M.

Her poems!—some of them are pretty enough, to be sure—and feeling—as one might say—(takes a great snuff)—But, for the dramatic piece, certainly never was any thing so ridiculous.

N.

Her dramatic!—the thing she calls the Scundum is ten times better than the dramatic.

M.

Dare you, sir!—that's altogether an imposition—that verse was written by her sister.

Enter Gustard with a drawn sword, and the Cat runs in beneath the bed.

SCENE II.

A door opens, and discovers a long table, with twenty covers—a fine sideboard, with a display of silver-plate, china, glasses, &c. The company ushered in by a fine powdered footman,—The Scrivener and his Wife—their three Daughters—a Fat Minister and his Daughter—other two young Ladies—Mrs Umphrey, a widow—a West Indian Student—three Lieutenants—an Irishman—an old Ensign, and a Colonel.

THE LADY OF THE HOUSE.

Do you choose a little soup, ma'am?

MRS ——

I am terribly fatigued—I would rather have a pâté.

FAT MINISTER.

Hobbernob, Miss—Colonel, I fancy our bonny lasses at home are little short of the three tits—you took at the battle of Malplackuy.

COLONEL.

I can remember yet how they blush'd, when they were set up amongst us youngsters.