death,
But sic a pryce we coft?

'Thare pretty necks I've slibbered sae
Ah! Percy, gentil lord,
To hae them raxed upon a tree,
And strangled wi' a cord!'"

Admirers of the ancient ballad--what do you say to that? There is the
fine old Scots dialect in all its purity with a vengeance! In what part
of the island such a jargon is spoken, we are fortunately at present
unaware. Certain we are that our fathers never heard it; and as for
ourselves, though reasonably cognizant of the varieties of speech which
are current in Gilmerton, Aberdeen, the Crosscauseway and the Gorbals,
we protest that we never yet met with any thing so cacophonous as this.
It is impossible, however, to deny Mr Sheldon the merit of pure
originality. Nobody but himself could have written the first glorious
stanza, which embodies so perfect a picture of despair, or the second,
in which the old familiar phrase of "blawing intill his lug" is so
appositely adapted to verse, and put into the mouth of a knightly
Scottish commander. Lady Seton, too, is exquisite in her way. The
"slibbering" reminiscence--which, we presume, is equivalent to
slobbering--is one of those natural touches which, once uttered, can
never be forgotten.

It will, we opine, be sufficient to quench the curiosity of our readers,
when we state that the above is a fair average specimen of Mr Sheldon's
original productions. We presume that few will thirst for another
draught from this pitcherful of the Border Helicon; and--as time
presses--we shall now push forward to the consideration of the
remodelled poetry. The first of these is called "Halidon Hill," and, as
we are informed in the notes, it dates back to the respectable antiquity
of 1827. The following magnificent stanzas will convey some idea of the
spirit and style of that production.

Glower'd the Scot down on his foe:
'Ye coof, I cam not here to ride;
But syne it is so, give me a horse,
I'll curry thee thine English hide.'

Quod Benhal, 'I cam to fight a man
And not a blude mastyff,--
Were ye a man and no a pup,
Saint Bride I had as lief.'

'Foam not, or fret, thou baby knicht,
_Put some food in thy wame_,
For thou art but the champion
Of some fond Norfolk dame.

'My dog shall shake thy silken hide,
Thy brainis prove his fee,
Gif in that bagie skull of thine
There any brainis be.'

'Thou art a bragging piece