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Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

Unscathed by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem

Arise to deck our land.

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B A L L A D AS the authentic Prose history of the WHISTLE is curious, I shall bere. give it - In the train of Anne of Denmark, when the came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish Gentleman of gigantic ftature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus, He had a little ebony Whistle, which at the Commencement of the ogies, he laid on the table ; and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whittie as a trophy of victory. - The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a fingle defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockbolm, Moscow, War. faw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the altei Aative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. --- After many overthrows on the

part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lowrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights hard conteft, left the Scandivanian under the table, “ And blew on the whistle his requien fhrill."

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards loit the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Gleniiddel, who had married a fifter of Sir Walter's.

-On Friday the 16th O&tober, 1790, at Friar'sCarse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the Ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lowrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Clenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whifile, and in whole family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Erg. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert, which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field,

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 *, fill rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle fends down from his hallThis Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get

« o'er,

“ And drink them to hell Sir! or ne'er fee me

more !”

Old poets have fung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror ftill,
And blew on the Whistle their requiem fhrill.

Till Rubert the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatched at the bottle, unconquered in war, He drank his poor god-ship 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 jorial contest again have renewed.

* See Ofian's Cazac-thura,

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,
Deliring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil :
Or elfe 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 re

plies, “ Before I surrender fo glorious a prize, " I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More *, And bumper his horn with him twenty times'

os o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no fpeech would pretend, But he ne'er turned his back on his foe_0

:-or his friend, Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee.deep in claret he'd die or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddeľour heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; But for wine and for welcome not more known to

fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely

dame,

* See Johnson's tour to the Hebridés.

A dard was selected to witness the fiay,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and ipleen,
And wished that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so fet, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were

wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witneffed so joyous a corps, And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well vore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turned o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their anceitor did.

1

Then worthy Glenriddel, fo cautious and fage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ;
A High ruling elder to wallow in wine !
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with Fate and Quart Bumpers contend? Though Fate, said a hero, should perih in light; So uprofe bright Phæbus -and down fell the knight.

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