iliarly denominated a Tappit Hen, and which, in the
language of the hostess, reamed (i.e., mantled) with excellent claret
just drawn from the cask.

It was soon plain that what crumbs of reason the Bear had not devoured
were to be picked up by the Hen; but the confusion which appeared to
prevail favoured Edward's resolution to evade the gaily circling glass.
The others began to talk thick and at once, each performing his own part
in the conversation without the least respect to his neighbour. The Baron
of Bradwardine sung French chansons-a-boire, and spouted pieces of Latin;
Killancureit talked, in a steady unalterable dull key, of top-dressing
and bottom-dressing, [Footnote: This has been censured as an anachronism;
and it must be confessed that agriculture of this kind was unknown to the
Scotch Sixty Years Since.] and year-olds, and gimmers, and dinmonts, and
stots, and runts, and kyloes, and a proposed turnpike-act; while
Balmawhapple, in notes exalted above both, extolled his horse, his hawks,
and a greyhound called Whistler. In the middle of this din, the Baron
repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite
discipline so far prevailed that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened
to beseech their attention 'unto a military ariette, which was a
particular favourite of the Marechal Duc de Berwick'; then, imitating, as
well as he could, the manner and tone of a French musquetaire, he
immediately commenced,--

Mon coeur volage, dit elle,
N'est pas pour vous, garcon;
Est pour un homme de guerre,
Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Qui port chapeau a plume,
Soulier a rouge talon,
Qui joue de la flute,
Aussi du violon.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but broke in with what he called a
d--d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethroughwi't, the piper of Cupar;
and, without wasting more time, struck up,--

It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed,
And o'er the bent of Killiebraid,
And mony a weary cast I made,
To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail.

[Footnote: Suum cuique. This snatch of a ballad was composed by Andrew
MacDonald, the ingenious and unfortunate author of Vimonda.]

The Baron, whose voice was drowned in the louder and more obstreperous
strains of Balmawhapple, now dropped the competition, but continued to
hum 'Lon, Lon, Laridon,' and to regard the successful candidate for